


Little things make big things happen (Tumblr fic collection)

by BakedAppleSauce



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV), The Old Guard (Movie 2020), True Detective
Genre: Ficlet Collection, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, So here we are, Tumblr Prompt, basically just having everything scattered on tumblr is giving me anxiety, ratings vary, these are all stand-alones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-21 07:50:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 26,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22557592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: Basically just a collection of all the ficlets I've posted on tumblr, usually written in response to some prompt or inspired by a conversation.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Rustin "Rust" Cohle/Martin "Marty" Hart, Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 103
Kudos: 325





	1. Grooming (Peaky Blinders)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [[translation]Little things make big things happen (Tumblr fic collection)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27950294) by [hieroglyphics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hieroglyphics/pseuds/hieroglyphics)



> Basically just a collection of all the ficlets I've posted on tumblr, usually written in response to some prompt or inspired by a conversation, because I wanted them all in one place. I'll keep updating and adding to this, probably. Please refer to the individual chapter notes for details like fandom, pairings, ratings, warnings, etc...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Peaky Blinders,** General Audiences  
> Tommy x Alfie  
>   
> Original prompt was “one of them getting dressed or grooming and the other one being fascinated about it” and for whatever reason, I settled on hair of all things.

“Hmmmmghh,” Alfie says, a dissatisfied noise that seems to come from deep inside chest.

He’s in front of the bathroom mirror, which is a rare enough occurrence in itself; especially since Tommy has witnessed him do the unthinkable of getting dressed in the morning and then just… leaving the house, without checking his reflection once, on more than one occasion. It makes him uncomfortable just thinking about it. 

Tommy has just finished tying his tie, which is something he could do with his eyes closed, but still, why not check what you’re doing if you got the chance and then carefully straightened it, and then he’d cleared the space. Now Alfie is standing there, staring at himself in the mirror with suspiciously narrowed eyes, like an animal seeing their own reflection for the first time, like he’s not sure who he’s even looking at, but they seem familiar anyway. 

Tommy crosses his arms and says, “What.”

“S’getting long, innit,” Alfie says, combing a hand through his hair; leaves it even more of a mess than it was before. He’s not wrong – it is getting kind of long, curling at the nape of his neck, long strands making him look even more dishevelled than he actually is some of the time.

Tommy’s not… opposed. He’s never going to say that out loud, naturally, but he… well. He might kind of like it. It’s easy to thread his fingers through it, make a fist, clutch at it, if he feels like he needs… something to hold on to, under certain circumstances. So what. It’s just very convenient, that’s all.

“You need a barber?” he says, because he’s honestly not sure yet who usually gets to cut Alfie’s hair, but it usually ends up being a careless mess as well, like a haircut you’d give to somebody who’s very sick and bedridden, just for practical reason instead of anything resembling actual purpose or, God forbid, style. For a single second, he has the horrifying thought that maybe Alfie does it himself, might cut his own hair, but no – he definitely goes somewhere, or at least he did in the past. 

Who knows, Tommy thinks, might be the actual butcher after all. 

“Nahhh,” Alfie says, predictably. He turns the tap on and sticks both hands under the running water, waiting a few seconds until they’re wet enough; then he combs them both through his hair again, slicking it back against his head. It works out reasonably well; except it won’t stay like this for long without any product, of course, because as soon as the water dries, it’s going to be back to the same unruly mess it was before. Well, he’s going to put his hat on in a minute anyway, so it decidedly won’t matter. 

Alfie repeats the process once more, before turning the tap off again. 

“Why,” he says then, turning towards Tommy without even checking the final result in the mirror, already not interested anymore. “Don’t think I’m pretty enough as is, mate?”

He looks… well, good, Tommy thinks in the privacy of his own head, blinking at him. For some ridiculous reason, he’s reminded of some fancy, upper class bastard in evening wear all of a sudden, going to the opera or the theater or wherever the fuck it is these people go for entertainment. Except it’s Alfie, of course, in his decidedly not evening wear-clothes, with one cowlick already out of place again, standing in the middle of his bathroom. 

“I could introduce you to my tailor,” is what he says out loud, mouth gone a bit dry and Alfie rolls his eyes. Says “fuuuck off, mate,” clearly amused and ambles over, to tip Tommy’s chin up with his thumb. “Not everybody needs to be dressed for a royal fuckin’ funeral every single day of the bloody week.”

Tommy thinks about replying with something sarcastic, but then changes his mind and kisses him instead.


	2. Sharing Clothes (True Detective)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **True Detective,** General Audiences  
> Rust x Marty  
>   
> Prompt was “swapping / sharing clothes” and I was in a True Detective state of mind, so…

Rust notices before him.

That’s the worst part, really – Rust looking at him after half an hour of sullen silence, out of the corner of his eye, and muttering, “Wearing my shirt, by the way” offhandedly, with that endlessly lethargic tone of his; like he’s stating the fucking obvious, one plus one equals two, which means he realized it hours ago and got tired of waiting for Marty to notice. 

Rust woke up in a terrible mood this morning, which happens every other week or so, and is usually pretty manageable – if you leave him alone for a while, leave him to his own devices, he eventually stops being a condescending prick again. 

Except this time, Marty barely got any sleep himself; one of those nights where he knows the dreams were horrible only because of the aftermath, which is worse somehow, because it only leaves him with an uneasy, suffocating feeling that lingers a lot longer than the outright terror that makes him flinch awake in the middle of the night. Except this time, they’re stuck in the car together for hours on end, because they have to drive up to Jackson, Mississippi on PI business. Except this time, they have been at each other’s throats since breakfast. 

He’s right, Marty thinks, after he’s looked down on himself, inspected the buttons and the shirtsleeves, while Rust keeps on staring out of the window like the secrets of the universe are presented to him out there and he’s not impressed with them in the slightest. God fucking dammit. Of course he’s right. He always is.

The shirt is light blue and looks pretty similar to one that Marty has, but it’s definitely not his. That’s what he gets for dressing in a hurry. In all fairness, it’s not really Marty’s fault. They share one closet, after all, and while there have been some half-hearted attempts at keeping some degree of separation, they don’t exactly make a point of it. Around the house, Rust tends to wear Marty’s clothes like they’re going out of style. 

It’s not actually a big deal, all things considered, it’s just specifically annoying today, because they’re already bickering and… well. Rust had to fucking notice, didn’t he, and now Marty feels like an idiot, which isn’t something he enjoys at all, his neck growing hot and starting to itch.

“Well, s’cuse me,” he says, irrationally angry about it all of a sudden. “Believe I never bothered you about it, all those times you decided to put on any of my shit.”

Could’ve just said he did it by accident, he thinks – because he did – but now he weirdly feels like it’s become his own decision and he has to stick to it. There is beat of silence, then Rust’s head slowly turns towards him again.

“It botherin’ you that much, all you had to do was say something,” he says, blank-faced.

Marty could fucking strangle him. 

“Not the fucking point,” he says, getting more irritated by the second, because… hell. He’s never, ever going to admit it out loud, but he likes Rust wearing his clothes, even if it’s just old sweatpants and T-shirts Marty hasn’t touched in years, and nobody would ever look at him and think he belongs with somebody because of it. 

Which… ain’t like he belongs to Marty, it’s not like that at all, but they’re sharing a bed. That has to count for something. 

“Look, man-” Rust says, and now he sounds irritated as well, and Marty very loudly says, “Just forget it, alright.” before Rust can finish whatever he was going to say, because nothing good can come of this. 

Silence descends again. After a few miles, Rust cracks a window and lights a cigarette. 

“That really necessary,” Marty grumbles. 

“Yeah”, Rust says, cigarette stuck between his teeth, completely unimpressed. 

“Look,” he mumbles eventually. It’s hard to hear over the noise of the car, amplified by the open window. “Didn’t mean to… ain't like I fuckin’ mind or anything, alright.” Then he adds, staring down at his knees, “Reckon it looks better on you anyways.“ 

Which is just… blatantly fucking untrue, Marty thinks, even a blind person would arrive at that conclusion without any trouble. Still, he feels weirdly mollified, which is a bit annoying, he’s not going to lie. 

“That so,” he says and then, with sudden humor, he adds “Go on, wouldn’t mind hearin’ more about that." 

"Fuck off, man,” Rust says, but there’s traces of a smile to his voice now, Marty can tell. “Stop fishin’, it’s embarrassing." 

"Well,” Marty says, nonsensically. “Good thing I’m wearin’ a nice shirt then.”

Somewhere, somehow, the dark cloud hanging over them since the early morning has disappeared; left behind some miles back like trash thrown out to collect at the side of the road. 

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s mine,” Rust says, dry as the desert, but the corner of his mouth is tilting upwards. And yeah, Marty thinks, yeah, it is. 

Ain’t that something.


	3. Flirting (Peaky Blinders)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Peaky Blinders,** Teen and Up Audiences  
> Tommy x Alfie  
>   
> Prompt was “jealousy and / or flirting” and I’ve felt compelled to write this… weird thing. It's basically just two self-important assholes making eyes at each other. Also, Homer and metaphors.

“Now, Hector,” Alfie says, with an air of finality. “Hector was a bloody idiot, wasn’t he.“ 

Tommy’s not sure how they’ve ended up discussing the Iliad during an official, completely above board-business meeting, but it was probably Alfie’s fault. It always is. 

"Hector is arguably the most important of all the heroes,” Wright says, disbelieving, then adds, like he’s worried somebody might think he doesn’t know this, “Next to Achilles, of course.”

This is what almost always happens, Tommy thinks, trying to look indifferent instead of entertained. People always tend to take Alfie way too seriously, even when he’s spewing blatant nonsense, just to see how far he can go, and then think he’s joking when he’s actually being serious. Tommy still hasn’t quite figured out if Alfie does it on purpose and if so, how exactly he manages it. 

“Dumb as a brick,” Alfie says, completely unimpressed. “Which, you can argue ‘bout the importance, right, till you’re blue in the face, mate, won’t argue with you there, but the fact of the matter is, yeah, as it stands, that cunt had a perfectly good city wall to hide behind, didn’t he? And what does he do? Not that. S'very fuckin’ irresponsible, is what that is.”

Alfie’s ideal epic would be full of very pragmatic people backstabbing each other, of that Tommy has no doubt. 

“But that is the tragedy of it all!” Wright says. “Which is part of the beauty of it all as well, wouldn’t you agree? The sense of inevitability." 

"Well,” Alfie says slyly. “Yeah. Sure. Among some other parts. Like it being the Greeks an’ all." 

He’s staring right at Tommy as he says it, not quite grinning, but the corner of his mouth is twitching upwards. Tommy clears his throat. 

"Oh yes, the Greeks as a whole were fascinating, no doubt,” Wright says, clearly not picking up on any of the underlying implications. 

“Fascinating, eh,” Tommy says, well aware that Wright is under the impression that Tommy is the one feeling out of his element here. Probably thinks most of the references went right over Tommy’s head, instead of what really happened; namely that Alfie started rambling about Troy and Tommy was too entertained to try and keep the conversation on track. 

He’s still looking at Alfie, who has now started to idly twist one of his rings around his finger with the thumb of the same hand. Tommy tilts his head a bit, and thinks about sucking that finger into his mouth, maybe replace Alfie’s thumb with his own tongue, press it flat against the metal. He’s fairly certain that the expression on his face doesn’t change, but Alfie catches on almost immediately, Tommy can tell. Couldn’t even explain how or why, just that Alfie’s knows. His eyes go dark and he makes a low, grumbling noise that Wright, still waffling on about beauty born of tragedy, seems to take as affirmation. 

“Always prefered Achilles, personally,” Tommy says, and Alfie coughs and mutters, “Yeah, naturally, ‘cause he won that fight, didn’t he.” 

“Yes,” Tommy says, deadpan, and takes a sip of Whisky, pointedly ignoring the way Alfie watches him as he swallows it down. Has to resist the urge to smirk. “That’s exactly why.”


	4. Sleeping (Peaky Blinders)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Peaky Blinders,** General Audiences  
> Tommy x Alfie
> 
> Prompt was “sleeping” , but it’s not very eventful and also kind of weird.

Tommy’s asleep. 

Alfie stares, and then he looks down at his own hands, and then he stares some more. It’s baffling. What in the hell? This never happens. 

The book Tommy has been reading is lying open on his chest, pages turned downwards, fingers of one hand splayed protectively over its spine. Still, Tommy’s eyes are closed, head lolling sideways; his other hand is on top of the pillow, right next to his face, fingers curling slightly.

He looks exhausted, Alfie thinks. Always does, but for some reason it seems especially noticeable now, when there’s no piercing flash of blue eyes to distract from it. Dark lashes fanning out over the shadows under his eyes. Pale, sharp face, with his mouth hanging open the tiniest bit, breathing slow and deep. There’s something about him when he stops putting up his usual facade, soft and brittle at the same time; the kind of frayed around the edges that always makes Alfie want to pull at it, just to see what might happen, just to see if maybe he could unspool the whole entire thing. 

He tries to pull the book out from under Tommy’s hand carefully, but of course – Tommy makes a low sound and stirs. He blinks up at Alfie, still drenched in sleep, which is very fucking unusual indeed. Tends to snap out of it almost immediately, Alfie thinks, doesn’t he, startling awake like it’s life or death on most days. 

“I’ll take that, mate, if you don’t mind,” Alfie murmurs and finishes what he started, taking the book from him. Freud, of all things – and what’s more, Alfie distinctly remembers looking for that one yesterday. Tommy must’ve taken it along, carried it around in his briefcase, just to read tiny bits and pieces in between the million other things he does on a daily basis. 

“Mmhh,” Tommy says, still sounding half asleep. 

Maybe he’s coming down with something, Alfie thinks, and puts a hand on Tommy’s head almost absentmindedly. Can’t feel anything resembling his temperature like this, naturally, because all of his hair is in the way. Tommy exhales deeply and rolls onto his side, towards Alfie of all things. Alfie keeps his hand where it is, moving it with him, and can’t help but gently scratch his fingers over the back of Tommy’s head. Can’t help but think about the gun in his bedside drawer all of a sudden either. Tommy probably knows it’s there. Alfie has never actually seen him see it, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t. 

Hell, but he looks small, curled up under the covers like that. Non-threatening and exposed, despite the blanket. Probably wouldn’t even know what hit him, if Alfie decided to pin him down right now. He cups the back of Tommy’s neck, a bit firmer than before, strokes a thumb over the shell of his ear. Tommy’s eyes stay closed. Alfie can’t tell whether he’s gone back to sleep entirely or if he’s just trying to relax.

He sinks down onto the mattress himself, shifts onto his side, so they’re facing each other. (Or would be, if Tommy was actually looking at things.) It’s a strange feeling that’s running through him right now; not protective so much as possessive, and not in an entirely nice way either, but at the same time, he’s weirdly calm about it. 

“Stop staring,” Tommy mutters, barely even finishes the second word. 

“M’not staring, yeah,” Alfie murmurs back, which is a blatant lie. 

“Always are,” Tommy says. It sounds like a sigh, and his eyes are still closed, and then he reaches for Alfie without even looking, fingers wrapping around Alfie’s wrist, sure and easy like they always do. Drapes Alfie’s arm around his own shoulder, inching closer at the same time until they’re plastered close together and he’s got his face buried against Alfie’s chest. 

“What’s the matter then,” Alfie says, right into his hair, because apparently he can’t fucking help himself, has to kiss the top of his head. “You tired? Hmm? S’the world coming to an end?”

“Shut’p,” Tommy says, so quiet it’s barely even audible and then he doesn’t say anything more. Alfie still can’t tell if he’s actually asleep or not. Tightens his arm a bit just in case, tucking him even closer. Considers saying something sarcastic, or… anything really, but for whatever reason he can’t bring himself to do it. Oh well.

Tomorrow is another fucking day.


	5. Quiet (Peaky Blinders)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Peaky Blinders,** Explicit  
> Tommy x Alfie
> 
> Prompted to either write Alfie forcing Tommy to be loud during sex or make him stay quiet. I went with the latter.

Tommy’s staring up at him with his mouth hanging open, breath rushing in and out of him fast and shallow. He’s doing it on purpose now, Alfie knows, because he’s figured out that he’s a lot more likely to let some involuntary noise escape when he’s trying to grit his teeth and keep his mouth closed. So now he’s doing this instead – because he’s smart, Alfie thinks fondly. He’s doing the smart thing, isn’t he.

It has been one of those evenings – except no, bloody scratch that, Alfie thinks, has been one of those days, actually, hasn’t it – where Tommy had decided, for whatever fucking reason, to be an irritating prick about everything under the sun. The attitude had extended to the bedroom as well, naturally, because Tommy never does anything halfway; couldn’t even if he wanted to, probably, because he wouldn’t even know where to start. 

Usually, on a good day, Alfie tends to find it amusing maybe even endearing at times – the way Tommy tries to be aloof and impassive, like he is the one doing Alfie a favor by sleeping with him. Like he couldn’t care less, even as he’s doing things like taking his clothes off and climbing into Alfie’s bed, leaving no question about where this might be headed. 

Except today had been a different sort of day, hadn’t it, and Alfie had been annoyed due to circumstances of the business variety, and had already been looking for a good excuse to take it out on somebody. And all right, it’s not really unusual for Tommy to try and keep quiet in bed – granted, that varies a lot and he’s definitely gotten more relaxed and therefore a bit bolder over time – but sometimes he still seems to end up in that strange place inside his head, the one he seemed to be stuck at right at the very start. The one where it seems like a fatal admission of weakness to indicate any actual enjoyment. 

Alfie, who has figured out by now that he himself tends to work through most of his emotions by turning them into words (not always corresponding ones, exactly, not always words that pertain to the actual emotional situation in any way, but words nonetheless) can’t understand for the life of him what the appeal might be. 

“Fine,” he had snapped, finally; didn’t miss the way Tommy had swallowed at the sudden shift in tone. “You know what, mate? Yeah? Since you don’t seem to be in a sharing mood and all that, right, how ‘bout you just stop sharin’ altogether? Hmm?" 

"Meaning what” Tommy had said, clearly trying to sound indifferent and ending up sounding petulant instead. As always, he looked like a fucking picture, didn’t he, sour expression and all. The annoyed twist of his mouth would have been a lot more convincing if he hadn’t also been sprawling out naked on top of the mattress, one proprietary hand curled around Alfie’s biceps. 

“Meaning that you’re gonna shut that lovely mouth of yours,” Alfie said. “Won’t you. You’re gonna shut the fuck up, mate, and the second you make a fuckin’ noise? Yeah? We’re gonna stop whatever it is were doing, right? Start the whole process all over again." 

"Fuck you,” Tommy had muttered, eyes flitting down to Alfie’s collarbone and back up to his face again, which… that basically was blanket permission and they both knew it. 

So now here they are. Alfie’s two fingers deep and Tommy’s eyes keep fluttering shut, despite the fact he keeps blinking them open again, as if he’s trying to force himself to focus. There’s bloody murder written all over his face. 

It took Alfie a while at first, he’ll happily admit that, because Tommy is a stubborn bastard at the best of days, but the one thing that always gets to him is taking it slow. It’s like boiling a pot of water or something; excruciating at first, especially if you’re feeling impatient, but once everything gets going, it’s hot enough to burn. Tommy’s the same in that regard – barely affected at first, but if you take the time to really get him going, he’ll eventually get so hot for it it almost seems like an act. Except it isn’t an act, of course it isn’t, because Tommy Shelby wouldn’t put on this kind of performance of his own volition under threat of fucking death. 

“Doin’ pretty well,” Alfie murmurs, transfixed, because he couldn’t tear his eyes away if the bloody house caught on fire. It’s true anyway, they’ve had to start and stop a few times already, Alfie painstakingly waiting for Tommy to cool off a bit each and every time, before he started fucking him with his fingers again; but for the last ten minutes Tommy’s been remarkably controlled. “Have to hand it to you, mate-" 

"Shut up,” Tommy growls at him, before he can stop himself, apparently. His eyes widen in terror at the realization and they both freeze for a moment, and then Alfie starts to pull out again slowly. 

“No,” Tommy hisses, still trying keeping his voice low, even though there’s no point anymore, just like there’s no point in him trying to clench down, trying to keep Alfie’s fingers inside. “No, no, no, c’mon- fuck-”

His cock is so hard by now it keeps twitching, where it’s lying on top of his stomach, untouched.

“Shhh, sh-sh-sh,” Alfie says, calm and endlessly amused. “You need me to explain the fuckin rules to you again, mate? Hmm?" 

Tommy just glares at him, flush high on his cheekbones, but doesn’t say anything, because of course – trick question and all that. Smart boy, isn’t he.

"Right,” Alfie says, kneading his fingers into the fleshy part of Tommy’s thigh as a distraction, mostly for himself, patiently waiting for him to settle down again. “There we go, mate. S'all good, not like we’re in a bloody hurry or anything, right?" 

Tommy’s kicks him for that, instep of his foot against the outside of Alfie’s thigh, before his leg tips to the side again. Alfie grins at him, delighted. 

"There something you want, then? Something I can help you with?" 

Secretly he wonders how long they can keep this up for. How long Tommy is going to let him do this, before he either comes on accident or just straight up starts ignoring their little game in favor of trying to convince Alfie to just get him off already. Well, Alfie thinks. 

Only one way to find out.


	6. Gift (Peaky Blinders)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Peaky Blinders,** General Audiences  
> Tommy x Alfie

Alfie hands him something when they say their goodbyes. It’s a very formal affair, because they’re out on the street, standing next to Tommy’s car, since Tommy’s going back to Birmingham for the remainder of the week. 

“Well,” Tommy says, clears his throat for good measure. “Goodbye, Alfie.”

“That it is, Thomas,” Alfie says, very solemn, which doesn’t make a load of sense, but that’s Alfie for you. “That it is.”

They shake hands, and then Alfie presses something small and rustling into his palm. He’s quick and inconspicuous about it, no fanfare at all. 

Tommy raises an eyebrow and puts it into his pocket, whatever it is; he pays it no mind after that, because strangely enough, Alfie tends to hand him random things from time to time – some book he’s decided he has no interest in anymore, trying to pawn it off on Tommy, a half-empty packet of Tommy’s preferred cigarettes, God only knows where the missing ones have disappeared to, some tiny, corked sample bottle sealed with wax and filled with rum of the not-so-awful variety – things like that, casually thoughtful in a very absentminded way. 

Doesn’t remember it’s even there until the evening, when he finally arrives back home and shrugs off his overcoat, checking all the pockets out of habit, so as to not forget anything, and retrieves Alfie’s gift from the depths of his coat. 

It’s crumpled brown packing paper that has been folded into an rectangle, an uneven attempt at an envelope, bit smaller than Tommy’s palm. There’s clearly something inside of it. Tommy ambles into his office, nodding at Arthur along the way, who is miraculously still behind his desk, and waits until he’s closed the door behind him to carefully unfold the paper. 

He’s not sure what he expected… a single biscuit, maybe, or Cyril’s first missing tooth, tragically lost by chewing on a piece of furniture, or maybe just some quote written on the inside of the paper, but. In his palm, gleaming in the dim artificial light, Tommy’s holding a pair of cufflinks. They aren’t exactly his usual style – gold, yes, but they’re oval instead of rectangular, and holding a center stone each. Opal, if Tommy had to guess, even though the faint bluish tint isn’t exactly something he’s ever seen before. 

Despite the fact that the gemstones take up almost all of the available space, framed only by a narrow rim of gold, they don’t look flashy. Fucking expensive, yes, but very subtle at the same time. The kind of thing that screams old money – not having to show off anything at all, but absolutely able to if the occasion called for it. 

He stares down at his own hand, dumbfounded. This is… fuck. They’ve given each other things before, but never like this, never of this magnitude. The thought of wearing them makes his heart race, all of a sudden, something hot and fluttery curling around his ribcage. It feels indecent, the mere idea of it, even though he couldn’t even say why.

Maybe Alfie has done something, he thinks then, all of a sudden. It almost comes as a relief, the possibility that Alfie is just trying to placate, wanting to make up for it. Something. Whatever it may be.

It takes him one and a half cigarettes before he can bring himself to actually pick up the phone; cufflinks securely tucked away inside his jacket. The telephone rings for a long while until Alfie finally picks up.

“Yeah,” he says, no-nonsense greeting as always. “What.”

“It’s me,” Tommy mumbles. 

“Back in hell, then,” Alfie says, unperturbed. “Can almost smell it through the telephone, can’t I. S’an assault on the good old senses, yeah, is what it is.”

“Alfie…” Tommy says, and then doesn’t know how to continue. 

“Yeah, mate,” Alfie says and then he doesn’t go on either, which is the most telling thing he could have done, honestly.

“You-” Tommy says, and then can’t help but ask, the question basically rushing out of him, “What did you do?”

“What did I-” Alfie says slowly, clearly processing, and then he makes an amused noise. “Shot your favorite horse, didn’t I. Also started carryin’ on with one Mr. Keaton, right, instead of you, mate, since he’s got the quality of bein’ a decent fuckin’ listener, as well as being basically indestructible-”

“Alfie,” Tommy says again and Alfie actually stops rambling. Says “You bothered?” instead, in a tone that seems completely indifferent, like he couldn’t care either way.

“You steal them?”

“Oh, fuck off, mate,” Alfie says, but he sounds good-natured about it. “Me, I didn’t do anything, right. Purchased them fair and square, money changin’ hands, yeah, everything how it ought to be. The original origin, however, their genesis, if you will…”

“Right,” Tommy says. 

“Just…” Alfie says, then trails off for a second, before he continues, “Reminded me of your eyes, didn’t they… and s’not like I’m gonna get much use out of ‘em, right.”

“You could,” Tommy says, fumbling with his lighter, trying to stop his face from going hot. 

There is a moment of silence. 

“Not up to your standards, are they,” Alfie says, deliberately sarcastic and Tommy realizes that he thinks Tommy is about to decline, interpreting “you could” as an offer to return them to their original owner.

“You wanted them for yourself, you should’ve bloody kept them,” Tommy says, and clears his throat, lighter still clutched in one hand. Hasn’t even managed to take a cigarette out of their case yet. “Eh? Too late to back out now.”

“Is it, mate.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. He’s never going to admit this out loud, least of all to Alfie, but his brain has already supplied all the possible suit and tie combinations the cufflinks could go with. It’s an automatic process by now, he can’t help it. “Yeah, it is.”


	7. Smiling (Peaky Blinders)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Peaky Blinders,** General Audiences  
> Tommy x Alfie

The first time Tommy smiles – actually, properly smiles, with teeth and everything, eyes crinkling at the corners, his whole entire face lighting up – it’s so fucking unexpected Alfie straight up walks into a passerby; not just grazing his shoulder, but really bumps into him, full-on collision course and everything.

“Oi!” says the guy, offended. He’s dramatically rubbing at his shoulder, because he’s made of fucking glass, apparently, and Alfie huffs “fuck off, mate” in his general direction, too distracted to pay any actual attention. 

Tommy’s still smiling, fucking hell. seems even more amused now, like this little spectacle was very funny, ducking his head a bit, directing it downwards, at the ground, like he’s feeling self-conscious about it.

Alfie’s _shocked._ Can’t even remember the last time he was this shocked about anything, because he absolutely wasn’t ready for that, wasn’t expecting it in the slightest. Because yeah, Tommy’s _grinned_ at him before, and probably smirked a few times, and maybe even sneered, but he never actually… _fuck._

They’d been talking about Braille, of all things, wandering along and minding their own business, because, well, it was an interesting topic, wasn’t it, one Alfie had a keen interested in, and at some point he’d said… 

_“Would be worrying, though, wouldn’t it… just imagine, mate, yeah, you bein’ blind and all, and you’d happen across some writing, right, and then you’d be reading it, and the thing would say ‘Do not touch’ yeah-”_

There had been a snorting noise from Tommy at that and when Alfie looked over at him, he’d been bloody _smiling._ (Just like that, like he did it all the time. which was _decidedly_ not true.) He’s stopped now, Alfie thinks, still a bit dumbfounded, and only then realizes that the random stranger has disappeared at some point. Gone on his merry little way, thankfully.

Tommy looks a bit embarrassed now, shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets. 

“Why the fuck would anybody even write that in Braille on something that’s not supposed to be touched, eh?” he says, like a challenge.

“I dunno, mate,” Alfie says. For some strange reason, his heart is pounding like something monumental just occurred, which isn’t exactly true, but it’s not _not_ true, either. Feels caught off guard even, but still manages to say, “Would be the considerate thing to do, wouldn’t it.”

“Not really,” Tommy mutters.

Alfie should probably get this conversation back on track, he thinks, should smooth over the awkward edges that have suddenly manifested; and he will, he absolutely will – might find some strange, unusual subject matter and dissect it for all that it’s worth, like he always does. 

just give him a second. 


	8. Nightmare (Peaky Blinders)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Peaky Blinders,** General Audiences  
> Tommy x Alfie

When Alfie startles awake one night and there’s a shadow looming over him, his first, immediate, _instinctive_ reaction is to throw out an elbow, and _then_ he’s sitting bolt upright in bed, wide-eyed and panting, and realizes that not only was the shadow just Tommy, but also… Alfie just hit him square in the face. 

_“-’uck,”_ Tommy says, muffled, already clamping his fingers over the bridge of his nose, tight enough for them to turn white. 

“The fuck are you doing!” Alfie says. (Yells it, really, even though he didn’t really mean to do that.) 

“Still got… the ashtray,” Tommy says, very matter of fact despite sounding muffled, and does a tiny nod in the direction of Alfie’s nightstand, moving his arm along with his head. the ashtray is, in fact, sitting right there. And Tommy’s bleeding from his nose now, but from the way he’s acting and from the way he’s touching it, Alfie assumes that nothing is broken at the very least. Small mercies and all that.

He makes himself ask “everything still intact, mate?” feeling strangely queasy about it. 

“Don’t fuckin’ flatter yourself,” Tommy snaps, and then, after a moment of quiet contemplation, where he seems to mentally check everything for himself. “Yeah. Yeah, S’fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck off,” Tommy says, but he sounds annoyed more than anything. 

They end up in the bathroom after that… or rather, Tommy gets up to go to the bathroom, to get himself cleaned up, and Alfie tags along, even as he’s being told to mind his own business. Feels like he should apologize but can’t quite bring himself to do it, because he still feels weirdly unsettled, heart hammering in his chest. It feels like some wires got crossed somewhere, making his body feel like it _should_ be on high alert right now, even though there’s no real reason for it.

Tommy sets up shop by the washbasin, letting his head hang low, waiting for the bleeding to stop; red, delicate drops dripping from his nose down onto to porcelain, trickling down towards the drain. Alfie stands there awkwardly at first, before he sits down heavily on the edge of the bathtub. Crosses his arms for good measure. 

“You’ll live, yeah?” he says, to mask the creeping awkwardness, and catches Tommy glaring at him in the mirror. Still, he doesn’t say anything… probably because he gets it, Alfie realizes suddenly, which makes him feel a bit better, and somewhat resentful at the same time. 

“Thought you was a shadow,” he says then, after a few long moments of silence; has to raise his voice a bit because Tommy has turned on the water. He seems less upset after that, shoulders relaxing a bit. 

“I secretly wanted to batter you, yeah, I’d do that during the day, wouldn’t I… no need, right, no need _at all_ going through this this whole spiel in the middle of the bloody night-“ 

“I know,” Tommy cuts him off. “eh? I know. it’ll be fine, shut up." 

Might go downstairs, Alfie thinks, see if there’s anything useful in the old icebox. 

"Be right back,” is what he says out loud, and then he can’t help but add a muttered “treacle” to it. Can’t help but gently squeeze the back of Tommy’s neck either, as he’s going past. Tommy makes a disgruntled noise, but seems completely unfazed otherwise, doesn’t flinch away at the contact, which… well. 

It’s something, Alfie supposes.


	9. Meeting as kids (Peaky Blinders)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Peaky Blinders,** General Audiences  
> Kidfic  
>   
> Tommy and Alfie meet as tiny smartass children. (This is the epitome of tumblr fic, so it's pretty unpolished and messy.)

Nine year-old Tommy gets to accompany his uncle Charlie to London on a riverboat because he is the Responsible and Useful child (and also because Charlie Strong has a soft spot for Tommy ok, you can fight me on that, thinking to himself how it wouldn’t hurt if the boy gets to see their capital for a bit) and somehow meets eleven year-old Alfie Solomons. 

Who maybe keeps sneaking into the shipyard because one of the dogs there just had puppies and when Charlie’s like “who the hell is that lad over there just staring at us?” the guy there is like “That’s the weird Jewish boy who keeps showing up for the dogs. Keep kicking him out but he won’t learn his bloody lesson.”

And so Tommy, bored with the adults, very cautiously ambles over, because usually there’s at least one or two other Shelbys around for backup, but now he’s all by himself. And the weird Jewish boy just keeps staring at him with his head tilted sideways, completely unimpressed even though Tommy is approaching _very casually,_ all right, the _most_ _casual_ any nine year-old boy has ever approached anyhting, and then they’re just standing there, eyeing each other warily.

“You’re not s'pposed to be here,” Tommy says eventually, feeling pretty righteous making this statement, because at least _his_ uncle knows the owner, so Tommy figures he’s got some sort of claim by proxy.

The other boy has messy hair, made worse by the fact that the wind keeps tugging at a few strands insistently. He looks pretty poor, clothes visibly mended in some places, with shoes that are clearly too big for him, knuckles scraped raw. He’s silent for a long while, chewing at the inside of his cheek for a bit, before he very seriously asks, “Can you see the future?”

“What?” Tommy says, taken aback. “No.” 

Then he helpfully adds, “But my mother has an aunt who can.“

"Hmmm,” the boy says, very obviously not caring about that information in the slightest, “Cause your eyes, right? your eyes are _very_ weird.”

“They’re not!” Tommy says, offended.

“Yeah, they are,” the boy says, rolling his own eyes, like that is just a simple fact instead of just his own stupid, _untrue_ opinion. “They’re see-through.”

“They’re _not,”_ Tommy hisses.

The boy blinks at him for a moment, and then he shrugs and mutters, “Fine,” like he’s giving up on a lost cause, already turning away. “Believe what you want, then. I don’t care, do I.”

“Where are you going,” Tommy calls after him, pretending he’s asking because the boy isn’t _supposed to be_ _here_ and definitely not because he’s very intrigued and doesn’t want the encounter to be over just yet.

“See,” the boy says, turning around again and pointing a finger at Tommy, almost like an accusation. “If you could see the future, you’d know that already, wouldn’t you.”

“That’s not an answer,” Tommy says, trying not to sound petulant.

The boy tilts his head, as if to concede the point. “You wanna see some dogs?“ he says then, eyes narrowed suspiciously, like there’s a right and a wrong answer to that question.

“Yeah,” Tommy says immediately, which turns out to be the right answer. 

The boy’s name is Alfie. he’s Jewish, which is apparently a very important detail, even though Tommy’s not entirely sure what that means. He’s also a very enthusiastic whistler and carries a pocket knife he stole from one of the yard workers over a week ago.

“Didn’t _steal_ it, really,” Alfie says, grinning triumphantly. one of his stupid front teeth is all wonky, Tommy thinks. “Just… acquired it by unconventional means right.“

"So, stolen,” Tommy says dryly, trying to sound unimpressed. He’s never heard the word _acquired_ before, but he can guess the meaning by Alfie’s tone. 

“Well, show me the proof,” Alfie says dramatically, like Tommy’s a policeman or something. “Go on. you can’t convict without the evidence, can you?“

“Well _, no,”_ Tommy says, because _really._ “I wasn’t even here when it happened.”

“See?” Alfie says, triumphant again, like he just made an excellent argument. 

“That’s not even the bloody point,” Tommy says, which is a phrase his mother always uses when she’s arguing with aunt Polly. He’s pretty proud of it. 

“Sure it is,” Alfie says easily.

“Is not.”

“Is too!”

“You’e very argumentative, mate, yeah,” Alfie says, “Aren’t you.” _argumentative_ is another word Tommy hasn’t heard before, exactly, but it’s not hard to figure it out, given the context. The way Alfie says it, it almost sounds like a compliment, even though it probably isn’t.

“And you,” Tommy says bravely, “…haven’t shown me any dogs yet, eh? So who’s the liar here?“ 

Alfie blinks at him once, as if surprised. “True,” he says then, very solemn. “Absolutely true. come along, then. Keep up.“ 

With that, he turns around and marches off without even making sure if Tommy is following him or not. 

Tommy does.

* * *

There’s five puppies.

They’re not exactly exciting – not yet, because they’re still too small to move around all that much. Their eyes haven’t even opened yet. Still, Alfie crouches down carefully, gone quiet and reverent in a way Tommy associates with somebody entering a church. Tommy’s a bit wary at first, because… well, in his experience animal mothers are to be taken seriously, especially the ones with teeth. 

But the big, black dog seems happy and relaxed, stays curled around her puppies and only eyes them with mild interest, so Tommy figures it’s all right to kneel down next to Alfie after a few seconds, heedless of the dirty floor, because, well. He’s been on a boat for three days, and he wasn’t wearing his pair of nice trousers for the journey anyway. Also, it’s not like uncle Charlie will care.

“… ‘ello,” Alfie says quietly, obviously talking to the dog, and then he’s actually holding out his hand and starts to pet it; scratches the top of its head, smoothing back its ears, until the dog’s tail is softly thumping onto the ground where it’s laying down.

“D’you name her?” Tommy asks, voice also strangely quiet, because that seems to be the overall mood right now. doesn’t even now why he’s asking, because the dog probably already has a name; but for whatever reason it just seems a given that Alfie has bestowed his own name onto this dog.

“Vasilisa,” Alfie says immediately, which… that has to be some sort of name, Tommy suspects. Still, he says, “What?” because it sounds like nothing he’s ever heard before.

“Vasilisa,” Alfie repeats. “It’s from a story, right. fairy tale, actually,” he adds, a bit sheepishly, like that should be an embarrassing admission. They’re crouching right next to each other, shoulders bumping every time Alfie moves his arm to pet the dog some more. Down on the ground, one of the puppies is busy crawling over some of its siblings on some unknown mission.

“I like fairy tales,” Tommy offers, partly to make him feel better, and partly because well, it’s true.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. Almost goes on to say that _The Arabian Nights_ are his favorite, but stops himself, because what if Alfie will take the opportunity to make fun of him to cover his own embarrassment? The puppy on a mission tumbles down the entire puppy pile with a small sound.

“Bloody hell,” Alfie mutters, scolding like he’s talking to an actual person. “You got somewhere to be? hm? You’re a dog, yeah, not like you have appointments to keep, do you.” he sounds like an actual adult, saying that, and carefully scoops the puppy up with both hands and deposits it back between all the other ones.

“You don’t know that,” Tommy says without thinking.

“Don’t know what?”

“Maybe,” Tommy says, already feeling stupid, but it’s too late to take it back, so now he’s got to finish. “…maybe he does have somewhere to be. How would you know? You’re not his secretary.”

It’s the right occupation for what he means, he’s pretty sure. nobody he knows is a secretary, so he’s not entirely sure on what they really do, but it seems to fit.

Alfie blinks at him again, looking surprised and also vaguely amused, which makes Tommy feels irrationally proud, all of a sudden.

“You don’t know that,” Alfie says. “Maybe I am.”

“Are not.”

“Am too.”

“No you’re not,” Tommy says and shoves at his shoulder without thinking; not hard, but hard enough for Alfie to sways sideways a bit, which probably isn’t the best idea, because who knows, maybe he’ll be angry about it. but Alfie just grins at him, delighted.

“Ow!!” he says dramatically. “Could’ve broken my arm! Bloody hell!”

It’s a completely unexpected reaction, because the way this usually goes, boys _have_ to pretend not to feel a thing, even if they’re bleeding and it really, _really_ hurts. Maybe it’s different in London, Tommy thinks. Who knows.

“Think you can see the bone!” Alfie continues, clearly aware of the fact that Tommy’s amused and trying to continue the joke, holding out his completely uninjured arm for inspection. The knuckles of his hand are scraped raw, Tommy notices, like he was in a fight or something. “Right there, look!”

Tommy snorts against his will. “S’just your stupidity showing,” he mutters, which doesn’t make a lot of sense, but makes Alfie’s grin widen nonetheless.

“Oi,” he says. “I’m not stupid, yeah? You are.”

“Shut up,” Tommy says, before bravely adding. “I’ll break your other arm, too.”

“No you won’t,” Alfie says immediately. “You won’t, and you know why? Because Vasilisa over here, right, she’s gonna protect me!”

Vasilisa chooses this moment to yawn, huge jaws opening wide, before putting her head back down with a loud sigh. They both stare at her, awed by the perfect timing.

“Some help you are,” Alfie tells her bitterly, making Tommy snicker.

“Now he’s laughing at me,” Alfie continues, still talking to the dog, which makes Tommy laugh even harder. He doesn’t even know why it’s so funny, Alfie complaining to the dog like Tommy isn’t even there, narrating like the dog can actually understand him or cares at all, but.

For some reason, it _is._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Vasilisa is a popular Russian fairy tale character.


	10. The Night Shift (Peaky Blinders)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Peaky Blinders,** Explicit  
> Tommy x Alfie  
>   
> Alfie getting railed. That's it, that's the plot.

Alfie wakes up in the middle of the night, because… something is happening. Something is definitely happening, some nonsense or other must be going on, that’s the one thing he’s aware of immediately. 

Doesn’t even realize what it is at first, stuck somewhere in the murky gray area between sleep and consciousness. There’s a warm weight at his back, which… right, okay, must be Tommy then. Probably. If it’s not him, Alfie should probably start to get worried. He manages a vaguely inquiring noise, because it’s the middle of the night, all right, he can’t be bothered with _all_ of the bloody words right now.

There’s a long exhale in response, which definitely _sounds_ like Tommy, and only then does Alfie notice that… he’s moving, actually, without even realizing, hips are rocking gently – because there’s an arm draped over his waist and a hand down his pants, clever fingers wrapped around his cock, pulling at him slowly. He makes another noise, far less deliberate than the first one, low and pleased. Tommy’s hard as well, Alfie can feel him now, erection hot and insistent, impossible to miss, moving in time with the way his hand is moving on Alfie’s cock, pushing his own cock against the small of Alfie’s back. 

And _fuck,_ Alfie thinks, arousal shivering through him, how long have they been doing this? Because Alfie is _hard_ and more than ready to go, cock twitching a bit every time Tommy decides not to ignore the head and moves his palm over it with a little flick of his wrist. 

“What’s the matter, then?” Alfie mutters. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Thinks that maybe he should start participating to some extent, now that he’s actually awake and aware of what’s going on, but he feels tired and like he’s floating, and in any case, Tommy seems like a man on a mission. 

“No,” Tommy says, sounding very matter-of-fact about it. 

“No?”

“No,” Tommy says again. “You’re very fuckin’ distracting.”

“Ohh, I am, am I, hm? Is that a fact?”

“Yes,” Tommy says very seriously.

“Well, I’m fuckin’ sorry, right,” Alfie says, voice still hoarse with sleep. “That a man bein’ peacefully asleep in his own bloody bed is such a distraction to you, mate.” Then he can’t help but add, “What, what are you doing?” because Tommy has decided to let go of Alfie’s cock for whatever reason, which is a tragedy in of itself, and taken his hand away and is now fumbling with something behind Alfie’s back.

“Nothing,” he says, pressing his face against Alfie’s shoulder blade, muffling his own words on purpose. “I just, it’s, d’you want maybe-” 

His hand is on Alfie’s arse now, digging his fingers in, spreading him a bit. It’s still new and unfamiliar enough for his meaning to become clear immediately. And it should be fucking ridiculous, honestly, because Tommy can’t even seem to _say_ it out loud, let alone the overall circumstances of this current situation here; it absolutely _shouldn’t_ make Alfie’s cock throb – the idea of Tommy lying over there, on his side of the bed, in the middle of the night, and just… casually deciding at some point that yeah, he would like to shove his cock up Alfie’s arse now, and no, he won’t be accepting any criticism at this current stage of the proceedings. 

Alfie should make fun of him for it at the very least, he thinks, because _honestly-_ can this man ever do _anything_ by halves? Would that kill him? But at the same time, it’s all he can seem to think about all of a sudden, drowsy and turned on and helplessly charmed by the fucking immaturity of it all. 

Says “go on then,” and waits for Tommy to do just that. 

He’s clearly nervous, but determined nonetheless. Doesn’t linger too long, doesn’t take the scenic route, just carefully rubs over Alfie’s hole for a few seconds, seeming to get the lay of the land, before he starts to push in. Alfie hisses through his nose at the first intrusion because… fuck. Two fingers already, he’s starting out with _two_ – only to the first knuckle, but still. Alfie can feel himself go tense even as he’s trying to stay calm; that old, familiar feeling dripping down his spine and spreading through the rest of his body, that strange mix of alarm and compliance, like his whole body is on high alert but doesn’t know what else to do except wait for the sensation to stop, to change, to lessen, to do fucking _something._

Tommy’s fingers feel slippery wet, because he probably overdid it with the oil, which is endearing and a good thing at the same time. That’ll help, Alfie thinks, it’ll make things easier, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. 

“Gotta tell me if you want me to stop,” Tommy mumbles, voice rough, even _as_ he’s pushing his fingers a bit deeper, the _fucker._

“Hnnn,” Alfie says very eloquently. 

Can’t have been a lot, he knows that intellectually, Tommy can’t have gone that much deeper, but it _feels_ like a lot, it feels like he’s being split open in the best possible way. Tommy is going to be fucking _relentless_ about this, Alfie can already tell – because he’s relentless about everything else, because he doesn’t know how to be anything else. It feels terrifying and uncomfortable and amazing, and he wouldn’t want to stop for anything in the world, arousal dripping down the back of his throat, coating his insides.

Tommy keeps going, careful but adamant, until he’s got two fucking fingers worked inside. Alfie knows he’s still stiff, _knows_ he probably shouldn’t move for a bit, try to adapt first, but he can’t seem to stop fucking… squirming around, discomfort be damned, because… _fuck._ He can’t even remember the last time he’s had some fingers up there that weren’t his own. (Might’ve been Ariel, he thinks. That seems to be the most likely option, at least.) 

Tommy on the other hand _has_ somehow managed to stop moving, the utter bastard; seems content to just let Alfie twist this way and that, keeping his fingers tucked safely inside, not giving an inch. Bloody hell, Alfie thinks, this should be an embarrassing position to be in, and he doesn’t even _mind,_ brain already too occupied, wondering what it will feel like if Tommy finally pulls out a bit, shoves his fingers back inside, pushes them _deep-_ fuck, but Alfie wants him to. 

“You lost back there?” is what he settles on eventually, which earns him an amused noise, and then Tommy starts to actually move his hand again. And… _fuck._ Oh. Might not be entirely sure what he is doing at first, but he’s clearly paying attention to every single one of Alfie’s reactions which aren’t exactly hard to interpret at the moment. (At least Alfie would like to think so.)

Tommy takes his sweet fucking time doing it, works him open for a long while, or maybe it just seems that way because everything is dark and quiet, and this seems to be the only thing in the world that actually exists right now. Alfie loses track of time a bit, too preoccupied with _feeling_ things to pay much attention to anything else. Then Tommy finally seems to decide that he’s done enough and starts pulling his fingers out.

“Hngh,” Alfie says, because Tommy… oh, _hell._ Tommy has no intention of stopping, apparently, and no intention of letting him catch his breath either, because there’s the blunt pressure of his cock at Alfie’s hole right away, turning sharp and immediate once Tommy starts working it in. 

_“Fuck-”_ Alfie grunts, grabbing for some corner of the pillow to hold on to, muscle memory kicking in automatically as he tries to breathe in, breathe through it. It comes out sounding a bit more laboured than he’d like, but oh, well, what the fuck is he supposed to do about that? 

Tommy’s not exactly going slow, but he’s being careful about it, methodical and thorough, because of course he fucking is. Got his face buried against Alfie’s shoulder, panting harshly. Alfie can feel every gust of hot air, which is a nice distraction, albeit not nearly enough. _Fuck,_ but this is a lot. Was a time, he’d have beaten the life out of anybody who thought they could try it like this, no warning, no courtesy, no nothing; was a time he’d have put a stop to it before it even started, except this is Tommy, of course, and Tommy is… Tommy is… 

Tommy is busy rolling his hips now, pushing deep with a low grunt of his own, oh _hell,_ and it’s just on the right side of too much, is the thing, exactly on the fucking edge. Alfie takes a deep, shuddering breath, tries to relax, tries to give into it. He can feel Tommy trembling behind him, just like the last time the did this (the _first_ time they did this), with nerves or overstimulation, who’s to say. Was shaking like a leaf the whole way through, wasn’t he, which didn’t seem to stop him at all. 

Now he only seems to be satisfied once he’s buried to the hilt – plastered to Alfie’s back like a limpet, clutching at Alfie’s hip like he has to keep him still, has to keep them close together, which… not like he’s going anywhere, Alfie thinks, something hot and mortified rushing through him at the realization, not like he doesn’t _want_ this. 

“Mmmh,” Tommy says, mouthing at Alfie’s shoulder blade. “Now you’re awake, eh?”

“That, I mean- that’s very debatable, innit,” Alfie says, which is as far as he gets, because Tommy isn’t even listening, has started muttering “Just… turn over, eh? Like this…” and is already in motion, pushing Alfie over onto his stomach. Stays plastered to Alfie’s back the whole time, cock firmly in place even as he knees Alfie’s legs apart a bit more. Like this, he feels a lot more substantial than he usually seems – hollowed-out and brittle, like some bird with hollow bones – but he’s a man of flesh and blood, still, which is very apparent right now, as he’s coming down heavily on top of Alfie, pinning him in place with his cock. Alfie’d have to fucking _work_ to throw him off, he thinks, wouldn’t he, and even _then_ he might not manage it at all.

If he even wanted to, which… _fuck,_ he really, really doesn’t. 

The first time Tommy rocks down it makes both of them groan. He’s still trembling all over, Alfie can _feel_ him, but that doesn’t make any difference at all, now does it, least of all to him, least of all right now. 

“Oh,” Alfie manages, low and surprised. “Oh. Fuck.”

“Yeah?” Tommy says, breathless, which… he’s just fucking fishing at this point, isn’t he. 

“Yeah,” Alfie says nonetheless, feeling like every single bone in his body has started to liquify. “Yeah, it’s- _c’mon_ then, mate, just- put your back into it, yeah-” 

Which is all the prompting Tommy seems to need, apparently, because he rocks down again, fucking deep without much momentum behind it yet, because he’s barely pulling out, but still… bloody hell, this is good. Alfie groans again, sound muffled by his own forearm, almost unprepared when Tommy does it again. Pulls out a bit more each time before he sinks back in, and then he’s shuffling around, getting his knees under him more, distributing his weight better, and the next time he’s fucking back into him, he’s going _deep._

“Oh- _oh, fuck you-”_ Alfie moans, not sure _what_ he’s feeling right now, only that it’s a lot, which doesn’t seem to stop Tommy in the slightest, because he’s found a rhythm now and he’s sticking to it. And what a fine rhythm it is, Alfie thinks, panting helplessly, what an excellent fucking job he’s doing, fumbling for Alfie’s hand now, the one that isn’t clutching at his own pillow but lying flat against the mattress; Tommy’s palm covering the back of Alfie’s hand, entangling their fingers. 

“Yeah, sure,” Tommy says with a voice that sounds like gravel. “We can do that tomorrow, but right now you just need to shut up and take it-”

“Ohhh, is that right,” Alfie says, breath hitching in his chest, because Tommy has settled down and is _really_ giving it to him now, putting his back into it like Alfie told him to, and it’s a little hard to breathe in a way that has no right to feel this fucking good. 

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, shut up,” Tommy huffs, free hand back at Alfie’s hip again, digging his thumb into the vulnerable underside of Alfie’s thigh before his fingers are on Alfie’s arse cheek again, pulling it to the side, spreading him open a tiny bit more, oh, fuck, fucking _hell-_

“S’the wrong way to get me to shut up, treacle” Alfie pants. “Just so you know-”

“Oh, is it?” Tommy says, clearly mocking. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah,” Alfie manages. “Yeah, yeah, m’pretty fuckin’ sure ‘bout that, aren’t I- you want to fuck somebody who shuts the fuck up, yeah, you’ve made a terrible fuckin’ error here, mate, haven’t you-”

He’s rambling and well aware of it, but it’s out of his control now, he couldn’t stop himself if he tried; because they’re in this together now, moving with the same pleasure in mind, chasing after the same goal. Alfie is trying to rock back against him in the limited space he has, mindless of the twinge in his back, because it seems absolutely irrelevant. Tommy clutches his hand to the point of pain, thrusts becoming more and more erratic until he has to stop and collect himself for a few long seconds before he starts to properly fuck him again.

After the third time this happens, Alfie can’t stop the impatient noise that wants to escape any more. Tries to turn his head around, look back at Tommy to kindly ask what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, except Tommy’s face is already _right_ fucking there, presses a kiss to Alfie’s jaw, his ear, before he buries down again, hiding his face against the spot Alfie’s neck meets his shoulder.

“You close?” Tommy murmurs, “Are you-” and Alfie huffs “no,” immediately, instinctively, just because he can – which is a blatant lie, that much becomes obvious as soon as Tommy works one hand underneath, fumbles for Alfie’s cock, rock-hard and twitching, and Alfie can’t help but try and fuck his fist as soon as Tommy’s got his fingers wrapped all around it.

“No?” Tommy says, sounding very sarcastic and Alfie says “oh, fuck, oh, _fuck off-”_ feeling completely out of control, first threads of orgasm already starting to unspool in the pit of his stomach. Can’t even get a lot of friction like this, because Tommy has no space to move his hand, and he’s not even _trying to_ either, just grips Alfie tight and lets him work himself into a fucking frenzy, fucking him at the same time, deep and absolutely graceless, rhythm gone out the window completely.

Alfie doesn’t even see his orgasm coming, reaches the end of his rope so fucking quickly (feels like he’s been on edge for an eternity at this point, which he very well might be, because who knows how long Tommy’s been working him over _in his fucking sleep, oh, fuck-)_ He squeezes his eyes shut, groans “oh, _fuck,_ that’s it, that-” and then he’s coming, clenching around Tommy’s cock helplessly, which makes him shudder with pleasure all over again, because that is still such a _foreign_ sensation in a way – the intrusion, the relentlessness, the indignity of it all. 

Right next to his ear, Tommy growls “thank Christ, _Jesus-”_ and then he’s _really_ fucking him, giving it to Alfie but _good_ for about twenty seconds before he starts coming himself. Alfie can feel him pulsing deep inside, can hear him ride it out with those lovely, breathless little noises he always makes, still so close Alfie can feel the air ghost over the side of his own neck. 

They lie there for a little while, Tommy still heavy on top of him, not seeming inclined to move at all. Alfie would say something, but he’s feeling half-delirious with the aftermath, caught off guard and wondering if that just actually happened. 

“Thomas,” he mutters eventually.

“Yeah,” Tommy says, sounding very satisfied and very out of it. Buries a bit closer with what might be pure instinct, like he has every intention of just… falling asleep right then and there, as they are.

“Don’t get me wrong mate, right, but you’re a fuckin’ menace.”

“Thank you,” Tommy says, very seriously.

“Any particular reason for what brought this on?”

“No,” Tommy murmurs. Rocks down experimentally, even though he’s clearly not hard anymore, but for one single second Alfie’s brain still supplies the idea of _what if._ (What if he wasn’t done yet, what if he’d get hard and start the whole process all over again – Alfie would _let_ him, is the thing. If Tommy decided to just… put him through his paces all over again, Alfie wouldn’t say no. Alfie would want him to.) “Just… couldn’t sleep.”

“Well,” Alfie says. “That’s understandable, then. Very reasonable reaction to have.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says and now he definitely, _definitely_ sounds smug. That fucker. “You know what? Thought you might agree.”


	11. All bets are off (True Detective)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **True Detective,** General Audiences  
> Rust x Marty  
>   
> Prompt was “character A wins a bet, but it turns out they cheated almost immediately”.

“Ohhh, of course,” Marty mutters, shoulders going tense for one long second. “Of-fuckin’- _course,_ here he is, stupid fuckin’ asshole-”

Then he straightens up, visibly relaxing into his usual persona, the one he puts on for these types of situation, a picture perfect impression of good-natured civility, and says, “Jim! Can’t stay away, huh?”

“Morning, fellas,” Jim says, coming to a halt next to their table. He’s in his late forties, decent-looking in a dull kind of way. Honors Rust with a quick look and a polite nod, because he finds him unsettling, that much was obvious right from the very beginning. Rust is not even offended. He tends to have that effect on people.

At his core, Jim’s a self-centered republican, the kind that thinks all of this queer rights-nonsense is over-exaggerated bullshit because he’s under the impression that he’s never met a gay person in his entire life. Jim has no idea they’re fucking. Probably wouldn’t believe it if they told him. He clearly thinks Marty is some kind of local hero and upstanding citizen, and Rust is some kind of charity case. Old partner who fell on hard times, and Marty’s being a good friend, providing a place to stay, upholding Christian values and all that shit. Like such a thing even exists. 

Marty for his part hates Jim with a fiery passion. 

There’s no real reason for it, least not as far as Rust can tell, because Marty _actually_ likes or at the very least easily tolerates a ton of people who are far more obnoxious than Jim. (Rust included, probably. He’s well aware that he’s not exactly a delight to be around, generally speaking.) There’s just something about Jim that seems to rub Marty the wrong way, something about his personality that sets Marty’s blood boiling without even trying. Depending on the mood, it’s either entertaining as fuck, or highly fucking irritating.

“Fuckin’ unnatural,” Marty grumbles on a regular basis. “Asshole’s gotta live in that damn office, there’s no other way. Don’t he have places to fuckin’ _be?”_

It all started with the parking space, which is fair enough, Rust supposes.

Personally, he wouldn’t give a shit, but it’s exactly the kind of superficial thing Marty tends to obsess over. Jim’s got his office across the street. They’re sharing the parking lot, which would all be good and well, no problems there, except there’s exactly _one_ spot that stays in the shade the entire day. Marty and Jim both go for that one spot each and every day. For some mysterious reason, Jim tends to win almost every time.

“Just park somewhere else,” is what Rust has to say then, each and every time, because otherwise Marty would be happy sitting in his car and rant for another ten minutes, and Rust has heard it all before. Could quote the entire speech by now, even. He doesn’t think Marty’s aware that Jim’s wife is stepping out on him, meeting up with her sister’s personal trainer every Monday and Thursday evening instead of taking a drawing class, which might be the reason Jim prefers spending time at the office instead of at home. 

He hasn’t mentioned it to Marty yet, because he’s got the uneasy feeling the whole cheating thing might stir up some old memories that don’t need any stirring. Anyway, Marty might catch on all by himself at some point. He’s not stupid, just needs some help broadening his horizons sometimes. 

Adding private insult to professional injury, Jim lives in their neighborhood, too. Got a brand new security system three weeks ago, which he _had_ to ask Marty about, because the PI business makes you an expert on this kind of shit. People keep asking for recommendations, for advice, for opinions, for trustworthy companies. Happens all the time. So Marty had to grudgingly admit that yeah, Jim’s system wasn’t half bad, he couldn’t _not_ recommend it, should get the job done nicely. 

Then he couldn’t stop fuming about it the entire way home. 

“How’s the coffee,” Jim says now, just trying to make smalltalk, because he is blissfully unaware of the fact that Marty hates his guts. It’s a dumb question, yes, because he’s been coming here on a regular basis same as them, and definitely knows what the coffee is like.

“Oh, well, y’know,” Marty says. “Black as a sinner’s soul” which makes Jim laugh, even though it’s one of those textbook phrases Marty just breaks out if he’s having a hard time being jovial. Doesn’t come natural to him, _actually_ disliking somebody, so he’s always having a hard time with it. Still, on a surface level, you wouldn’t be able to fuckin’ tell. Marty’s wearing society really well, always has. It’s a fucking marvel. 

They exchange pleasantries, talking about road works that are about to happen in the neighborhood for a while. Rust munches his toast and doesn’t say much. Not his scene. In the end, Marty sends his regards to Jim’s wife, effortless, like he even remotely cares – like he hasn’t expressed a desire to punch Jim in his _stupid, smug face_ on numerous occasions – and Jim leaves.

“Yeahhh good fuckin’ riddance,” Marty mumbles after him, which should be annoying because of how immature it is, but ends up being endearing instead. Sometimes Rust thinks he can actually _understand_ what all the women in Marty’s life saw in him, to put up with most of his bullshit. He’s not sure if he enjoys that realization or not. “There he goes. Fuckin’ _dick._ Gonna park in my spot again.”

“Ain’t your spot exactly,” Rust says around a mouthful of food, even though they’ve had this conversation numerous times before, but. Sometimes it’s just fun riling Marty up. 

“First of all,” Marty says, actually pressing his forefinger down on the table between them, like he’s explaining something important here. “I was there _first._ Been parking there for _years_ before that asshole came along-”

“You gonna eat that?” Rust interrupts him, because Marty is only halfway through the fried eggs on his plate and seems to have lost his appetite. Predictably, he pushes the entire plate in Rust’s direction with a dirty look that says he knows exactly that Rust is just trying to get under his skin. 

“Yeahh, fuck you too,” he says, sullen. “Here you go.”

“Well now,” Rust says, voice pitched low, already pulling the eggs apart with his fork. “You wanna do it in public, maybe you should pick a less crowded place.”

“Oh, ha-ha,” Marty says with a sarcastic roll of his eyes, but his ears are turning pink.

“He ain’t gonna be there tomorrow,” Rust says, a peace offering.

“Look who’s decided to get a positive outlook on life all of a sudden,” Marty says. “Yeah, he will. Just gotta accept the inevitable, I guess.”

“Nothing in life is finite,” Rust says, chewing. “Least of all life itself.”

“S’too fuckin’ early for this,” Marty mutters and waves at the waitress to signal for more coffee. “Also, yeah, he’s gonna be there tomorrow, same as today.”

“Nahhh, he ain’t,” Rust says.

Marty narrows his eyes at him. “You sure about that?”

“Pretty damn sure.”

“Why?”

“Just ‘cause.”

“Hmmmm,” Marty says, clearly disbelieving. “Bet you anything you’re wrong about that, man.”

“Yeah?” Rust says, surprised, because it wasn’t the intention to make all of this into some sort of game, but okay. Fine. Why not. 

“Sure,” Marty says. “Yeah.” Then he looks up, carefully checking their waitress is still out of earshot, before he lowers his voice and says, “Winner gets a blowjob out of it.”

Rust blinks at him, caught completely off guard, swallowing the bite of food in his mouth carefully. Can feel the back of his neck growing hot – not because of the offer itself, but because they’re in public and sure, nobody is paying them any attention, but Marty is usually… pretty fucking paranoid, to say the least. 

“Sure,” Rust agrees. “Got yourself a deal.”

Marty looks pleased as punch about it, even though his whole face is flushed now, but anybody looking might attribute that to the heat, so. They’re all good.

=

The next day, Jim’s car is nowhere to be seen.

They’re an hour late, because traffic has been unexpectedly busy for a Friday morning, and still, the parking space is blessedly deserted. Marty stares at it, clearly taken aback, and then he stares at Rust, a mix of suspicion and admiration on his face, and then he pulls into it very slowly, like he’s expecting Jim’s car to materialize out of thin air.

Once the engine’s off, he turns towards Rust, both hands still on the wheel, and says, “What did you do?”

“Nothin,” Rust says innocently. “You’re way too cynical, man. Gotta enjoy the nice shit life throws at you every once in a while.”

Marty doesn’t look convinced. Doesn’t get any more relaxed over the course of the day, either.

“Feel free to pay me back whenever you feel like it,” Rust tells him at some point during the afternoon, and Marty just flips him the bird.

“Yeahh, yeah,” he says. “Hold your damn horses.” Then his face falls for a split second, because Jim just walked into the office.

“I need your help, man,” he says to Marty, walking past Rust and ignoring him completely. “You won’t believe what happened this morning.”

“Sure thing,” Marty says, because that is his default setting. Doesn’t always mean it, but hey. It’s what a normal person would do. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Somebody slashed my tires!” Jim says. He doesn’t seem worried, exactly, and more outraged. “All four of them! Car parked inside my damn garage, can you believe this shit?”

“Seriously?” Marty says. If you didn’t know him, he’d seem honestly surprised, disbelieve in his voice almost convincing. “The fuck? Alarm didn’t go off?”

“Fuckin’ system wasn’t armed,” Jim says. “My wife, she keeps forgetting. I keep reminding her, right? Tell her almost every single day, ‘cause I’m not home most of the time, but… you know how it is, man.”

 _“Women,”_ Rust says, very dry, making Jim jump, like he’s forgotten Rust is even there. He’s telling the truth, too – diligently reminds his wife to not forget about the alarm at the end of every phone conversation they’ve ever had. (Or at the very least, at the end of every phone conversation Rust has ever witnessed.)

Behind Jim’s back, Marty shoots him a _look._

Is already putting two and two together in his head, Rust can practically see him work it out. The fact that Rust sent him out to get cigarettes last night, Marty complaining but going to get them nonetheless. The fact that Rust was _on a walk_ when he got back, which made him complain even more. Now Rust raises his shoulders a bit, still schooling his face into the most innocent expression he can muster, only allowing himself to smirk once Jim’s attention is back on Marty again.

“Well, sit down, Jim,” Marty says and gestures at the nearest empty chair. “Let’s talk this through. You call the police?”

“Sure thing,” Jim says, and then launches into a play-by-play of his whole morning. Marty’s not really listening to him at all, Rust can tell. Sinks further into his chair and wonders if this still means he won their bet. Probably not. 

When he winks at Marty for good measure, Marty almost smirks. Can’t, obviously, because Jim is talking about his list of possible enemies now, but it’s obvious Marty wants to. Well, whatever, Rust thinks, if he doesn’t win this one… 

Not like he’d mind losing either. 


	12. Old dog, new tricks (Peaky Blinders)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Peaky Blinders,** General Audiences  
> Tommy x Alfie  
>   
> Prompt was “they both try something for the first time. Character A is inexplicably good at it while character B is inexplicably terrible”.

Tommy’s honestly not sure what the fuck is going at first.

“Now look here,” Alfie is saying, and “This right here, yeah, this thing? S’the handle, innit,” and “Now watch.” 

“What… are you doing,” Tommy says, slowly, trying to make sense of the situation. Alfie shoots him a quick look and acknowledges his presence with a nod, not paying him much attention. 

“Nothing,” he murmurs, which is obviously a lie.

“Could’ve sworn you already know how they work,” Tommy says, meaning the living room door, which seems to be the main point of spectacle at the moment. “Have seen you successfully use some of them, even.”

“Oh, you have, have you, yeah?” Alfie says, but his heart’s not in it. “M’doing this for Cyril-” the dog sitting patiently in front of him perks up at the mention of his name, eyes flitting from Alfie over to Tommy and then back again, “…if you must know, because _Cyril_ here has no idea, does he. Which is a shame, right, because opening doors is a very useful skill to have, innit?”

It takes Tommy a long second to realize that Alfie is completely serious about this and also, that wasn’t meant to be a rhetorical question. 

“Very useful,” he says dryly, not even trying to sound like he means it. 

Which he _doesn’t,_ obviously, because… what the hell. It hasn’t even _been_ that long, he thinks, he only was on the phone for twenty minutes – long enough to find the madman he’s ended up fucking on a semi-regular basis standing in the middle his own living room, busy pointing at the door with the air of a well-meaning school teacher.

Tommy can’t help himself, has to lean back against the nearest wall, lighting up a cigarette, and just… watch Alfie’s dreadful attempt at teaching his dog how to open a door. The whole process mainly consists of Alfie opening said door, and then closing it again, narrating the whole thing. Cyril mainly just sits there, staring at him expectantly, tail softly thumping onto the floorboards. He clearly has no idea what is going on or realizes that he’s supposed to contribute anything, but seems excited nonetheless. 

“He’s never going to learn like this,” Tommy can’t help but say eventually. “You’ll never teach _any_ animal like that.”

“Cyril is _not-”_ Alfie says, offended, before he stops himself with a sour look on his face, presumably because he realized halfway through that there is no feasible way to say _“Cyril is not an animal”_ out loud and have it be even remotely convincing. Which is exactly the problem, Tommy realizes, because Alfie is trying to have a rational conversation here, like he would with any other person, instead of… just _training_ the dog to do something. realizes that since Alfie got Cyril as a full-grown dog, he probably never had to actually teach him to do anything.

“Yeah, well,” Alfie huffs, crossing his arms in front of his chest, “And you’re what, secret master of all of the fuckin’ dogs in the world, mate? Yeah? You can bloody… command them like Moses did the sea?”

“Yes,” Tommy says, just to rile him up, even though he’s never really taught a dog anything in his life, because that was always uncle Charlie’s job; if they even taught their dogs anything apart from who was to be considered an outsider and who wasn’t. Still. Can’t be that different from teaching a horse, he figures, because the same principles probably apply. 

“More of that fuckin’… _charming dogs_ business, yeah?” Alfie says and he’s actually a bit offended now, Tommy can tell.

“Sure,” Tommy agrees easily, resisting the urge to rub the bridge of his nose. Already knows he’ll regret getting involved in this. “Just… you got some dog biscuits?” 

“Yeah,” Alfie says, but he doesn’t move. 

“Can you… go get them?”

“Could do that, yeah,” Alfie says, still playing at being a statue. “If I wanted to.”

“Might be easier.”

“Did you hear that,” Alfie tells Cyril, conspiratorial. “Might be easier, he says. You believe that? Yeah? You think that’s gonna work?”

Cyril just straightens up a bit more, tail thumping a bit faster, staring at Alfie like he hung the moon and the stars personally. Clearly still has no clue that he’s supposed to open a door, or how, or why.

“Jesus Christ,” Tommy mutter, to nobody in particular. “Forget I said anything-”

“Ohhh no,” Alfie says, which is bloody typical. “No, mate, you made your fuckin’ claims, didn’t you, now you can go ahead and lie in them. I’m gonna get the treats, won’t I, you just stand there, yeah, and hang for a fuckin’ second.”

He ambles off, Cyril trying to go after him excitedly, except Alfie turns around in the middle of the hallway, and just… fucking points at the previous spot, which makes the dog stop dead in his tracks. 

“Well?” Alfie prompts, raising his voice a bit, and Cyril huffs, like he’s actually annoyed, and goes to sit back down again. Stares up at Tommy, eyes full of reproach, like all of this is exclusively _his_ fault. Tommy reaches out to pet his head, scratches behind one ear as a peace offering. Cyril perks up again when Alfie returns, and even more when he spots the garishly colored tin he’s carrying.

“There you go, mate,” Alfie says and hands over the tin with a smug air, like he actually expects this whole endeavor to fail now. 

“Thanks,” Tommy says dryly, hoping to God that Cyril might be willing to work with him on this. He’s got the dog’s full attention now at least, since he’s the one holding the treats. Opens the lid of the tin and puts it underneath, hands the entire thing back to Alfie without looking.

“Oi,” Alfie says, but Tommy just fishes out one of the biscuits and ignores him. 

Cyril is starting to drool now, eyes glued to Tommy’s hand. Tommy closes the door and then puts the treat on top of the door handle carefully, making a big production out of it. This should work, he thinks, the dog is big enough to reach it in any case. Cyril is practically vibrating out of his skin at this point, looking back over his shoulder at Alfie pleadingly, twisting around at an angle that looks borderline uncomfortable.

“Oh, _very_ fuckin’ impressive, mate,” Alfie says sarcastically, clutching the tin full of dog biscuits to his chest, interlacing his fingers in front of it. “Yeah, that’s absolutely gonna work. Go on then,” he tells Cyril, raising his voice a bit to give him permission, “…let’s see what- oh, Oh, _fuck_ off.”

Cyril has jumped up and, in trying to get the treat, knocked it straight off and onto the floor, but he’s pushed the door handle halfway down in the process – not quite managing to open the bloody thing, but close. Now he’s busy inhaling the bone-shaped biscuit like it is much needed air. 

“See?” Tommy says triumphantly, not even trying to hide how smug he feels. “That’s how you do it.”

“Oh, fuck all the way off,” Alfie grumbles. “That doesn’t even count, right, he didn’t even get it open all the way. Can’t say, right, can’t say I’m impressed.”

“No?”

“Nahhhh,” Alfie says, but he looks calculating now, extending a challenge. 

“All right then,” Tommy says. “Give me another one.”

They spend the entire afternoon teaching Cyril how to open a door. Better yet, Tommy spends the afternoon teaching Cyril how to open a door – first by putting treats on top of the door handle, and later on by placing them in the hallway right in front of the door, before closing it in Cyril’s face – while Alfie showers the dog with praise and simultaneously denies Tommy might have contributed anything at all, except maybe getting lucky a few times.

“Look at him,” he says eventually, overjoyed. “Smart one, isn’t he, better than most people. Just… look! Did it again, such a good dog!” 

Cyril, high on treats and compliments, does a deeply satisfied grumbling noise. 

“You’re welcome,” Tommy says. This was fun, he thinks, honestly a bit proud of himself, which is something he didn’t expect. Alfie, predictably, narrows his eyes at him. 

“Didn’t do much, did you,” he says, still a bit miffed. “Was all Cyril, yeah, wasn’t it – got it in one, didn’t even need much help.”

“Sure,” Tommy says. He probably should be insulted, but Alfie’s wounded pride is just… strangely endearing. “Should’ve just left you to it, eh?”

“Yeah…” Alfie grumbles. “Yeah, maybe. I mean… who knows, mate. Who knows. Did your best, I s’ppose, didn’t you.”

Tommy just shrugs. Gets his revenge anyway, when it turns out a few days later that Cyril has no qualms opening _all_ of the doors now, whenever he fucking feels like it, with the precision and speed of an actual human being. 

“Fuck you, mate,” Alfie tells him, after eight of the bakery workers have had their sandwiches stolen in a very mysterious fashion. “This, right, this is all your fault.” And well, to be perfectly honest? Tommy will fucking take it. 


	13. Trigger Happy (Peaky Blinders)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Peaky Blinders,** Explicit  
> Tommy x Alfie  
>   
> Prompt was “character A comes too quick, gets embarrassed and doesn’t have sex with character B for a week” in an established relationship. (More or less. It's Tommy and Alfie, so... you know how it is lmao.)

“Bloody fucking hell,” Alfie pants. 

He’s come marching in here like a fucking bull about five minutes ago, grabbing for Tommy like he was running out of time or something, all but throwing him around, which… all right. Look. It should be fucking annoying, the audacity of it all, the fact that Alfie feels fucking _entitled_ to it, like Tommy just _belongs_ to him… if only Tommy could convince himself of that, if it didn’t make his knees go weak and his cock hard. If only his first and only instinct in cases like this wasn’t to just tip his head back and let himself be kissed, let himself be pushed backwards, let himself be shoved on top of the desk, mind filled with nothing but static all of a sudden, buzzing pleasantly, making him feel useless and _used_ in the best possible way.

“Oh, fuck,” Alfie wheezes, eyes screwing shut. _“Fuck-”_

Tommy realizes he’s coming then, telltale flush all over his face, spilling hot all over Tommy’s hand, the exposed skin of his stomach and thigh, as well as part of his underwear. 

Keeps his eyes shut for a few long seconds afterwards, shirt bunching around his shoulders as he rides it out, unexpectedly graceful about it as he’s working his cock through Tommy’s fist. Presses their foreheads together like an afterthought. When he finally pulls back and opens his eyes again, he blinks at Tommy, right there in front of him, like he’s never seen him before, pupils blown wide, looking startled – looking completely _unhinged_ for a second there, to be perfectly honest, which shouldn’t be hot and it most definitely shouldn’t be fucking _endearing,_ of all things. 

Tommy makes a low, whining noise that feels like it’s been ripped from the back of his throat, doesn’t even know what to _do_ about any of this now; feeling helplessly fond and turned on a the same time. Can’t decide if he wants Alfie close to pet his hair, try to smooth out some of the unruly strands that are sticking out like usual, or if he wants him close because he can feel Alfie’s come drip down over his stomach, the fabric covering his own erection growing warm and damp with it and Alfie should fucking _do_ something about that. 

“Alfie,” he manages, and Alfie’s hand is cupping the back of his neck now, thumb stroking the shell of his ear. He’s muttering “Yeah,” and “all right” and “calm down” and “shh, shhh, s’fine, don’t you worry ‘bout at thing.”

“M’not _worried,”_ Tommy protests, breath hissing out of his nose when Alfie unceremoniously shoves one hand down his pants, gripping him tight, heedless of the entire mess – can’t help the desperate sound he makes, leg curling around Alfie’s waist, when he realizes that, no, not _heedless_ at all, Alfie’s using his own come to slick him up, make everything slippery and frictionless. Gets Tommy off like that too, going just a bit slower than they both know Tommy would like, drawing it out, which is fucking _deliberate_ and has no right to feel this good. 

Afterwards, it all seems fine. Tommy half-heartedly pretends to be annoyed about his clothes, and Alfie pats his cheek and says “looks better like this, mate, s’an improvement if you ask me” and Tommy says “well, nobody’s bloody asking you, for very obvious reasons” and then they’re interrupted by Alfie getting a call. He pointedly switches to Yiddish about two sentences in, which means Tommy should probably do the courteous thing and leave him to it, instead of what he actually does, which is lean there and unsuccessfully try to decipher any of the things he’s hearing. 

The point is, everything seems perfectly normal. 

Which it clearly isn’t because Alfie… starts being weird about it. And that’s fucking _saying_ something, Tommy is not even going to lie. It takes him a day or two until he actually notices. That night, Alfie rolls over onto his stomach as soon as he lies down, arms wrapped around his pillow like always, burying his face in it with a long, pointed sigh. Tired, Tommy figures, all right then, fair enough. The next morning, Alfie’s upright, dressed and moving around at seven o’clock, which is early, yes, but not unheard of either. Early meeting or something, Tommy thinks, making a mental note to ask around if anything important is going on. Maybe yesterday’s phone call had something to do with it. 

It doesn’t get better from there on out. It only gets worse. 

“S’fine,” Alfie says, when Tommy finally asks him about it, stilted and awkward and hating every second of it, which is a fucking lie and a half. Tommy suspects that Alfie fancies himself a good liar most of the time, which isn’t true at all. Sure, some people might get confused by all the nonsense Alfie keeps throwing out there like a diversion, like he’s trying to make it impossible to tell what is true and what isn’t sometimes, but actually telling a lie? Point blank? He’s fucking terrible. It’s almost like he _wants_ to get caught. 

“Yeah?” Tommy says, voice pitched down low. Tries to make it suggestive, tries to sound… fucking _attractive,_ he guesses, Jesus Christ. They haven’t fucked in six days, for no apparent reason at all; despite the fact that Tommy is staying over. What the fuck is going on? 

“Yeah…” Alfie says, nodding like he’s confused, which is complete and utter nonsense. He knows exactly what Tommy is trying to do here, which becomes even more obvious when he politely pats Tommy’s shoulder and leaves the room to do… God even knows what. Nothing, probably. Talking to the dog. Trying to smoke his newly acquired pipe, which was a gift, apparently. Alfie insists on smoking it time and time again, even though he loses interest after five minutes and just abandons it somewhere, until he needs it again three days later. 

This shouldn’t be so bloody _difficult,_ Tommy thinks, offended. It never is, unless something is actually wrong, or Alfie is in actual pain – and even then, most of the time he stubbornly _wants_ to, he’s just… limited. Usually, all Tommy has to do is _indicate_ that he’s in the mood – either by starting to be an unreasonable prick about something, if he wants Alfie to put him in his place, or simply by starting to take his clothes off. Maybe chew on his bottom lip suggestively for a bit, make a pointed comment. Alfie usually gets the hint pretty fucking quickly.

Which he obviously still does, Tommy is pretty fucking sure of that, it’s not like his _brain_ disappeared or anything, he just… decides to ignore it now, for whatever bloody reason. Goes all polite and distant, any time Tommy tries to… initiate something. Like Alfie is past it all. It’s irritating as hell. If he actually makes Tommy say anything out loud, Tommy might never forgive him.

That evening, he decides enough is fucking enough. Alfie can either tell him what’s going on, or he can shut up about it and get his cock sucked instead. Tommy’s had enough. 

Except he doesn’t get very far, because as soon as he’s down on his knees in front of Alfie, who’s busy reading something official-looking on the couch, completely unsuspecting, and actually touches one of Alfie’s thighs, Alfie puts his papers down, and then he’s got a hand curling over Tommy’s neck, shifting it upwards into Tommy’s hair and _makes a fist._

“Hang on there, mate,” he says, very softly, but the grip in Tommy’s hair is unforgiving, keeping him at arms length, which… Christ, that shouldn’t be _hot._ Shouldn’t make him _ache_ for it, all of a sudden, with the need to just sway forward and get his mouth on Alfie’s cock, bury his face against the crease of Alfie’s thigh and never get back up again. “Just a second, yeah? What the fuck, right, what the fuck you think you’re doing?”

“Thought that was obvious,” Tommy murmurs, petulant.

“Ohhh, thought that was obvious, did you,” Alfie says, mocking, but he sounds fond. 

“Yes,” Tommy says, irritated, because this is actually starting to smart a bit, the fact that Alfie just does not… seem to _want to_. Tommy has no idea what might be showing on his face right now, but suspects there might be _something,_ because Alfie is blinking at him, eyes gone soft, an unfamiliar twist to his mouth. Lets go of the iron grip he has in Tommy’s hair, pets at the back of his head instead. Tommy takes the opportunity to shuffle closer, until he’s right between Alfie’s sprawling legs, puts both of his elbows on top of Alfie’s thighs. Stares up at him defiantly, because seriously, what the hell.

“If this is about last week,” he says eventually, because, well… it _has_ to be. That’s the only thing that happened. “You’re being a bloody moron as usual. Eh?”

“Last week?” Alfie says, feigning confusion. “Something happen last week? Yeah? ‘Cause I’m not sure I remember-”

“I liked it,” Tommy says. 

Which is true, he did. Still does. It’s _flattering,_ in a way, which doesn’t quite seem like the right word; too impersonal and proper for what he actually means. It’s… it feels good, the idea of Alfie just… _losing_ it. Because of _him._ Because of the way Tommy looks, and sounds, and because of all the things they get up to together, which… _Jesus._ It’s mortifying in its very own way, every single time Tommy starts thinking too much about it, it just feels way too good to stop. 

Alfie is narrowing his eyes at him now, staring at him for a long second, before he says, “Yeah, right. Sure you did.”

“Why would I lie about that?”

“Ohh well, yeah, no, that’s right,” Alfie says, very sarcastically. “’Cause you’re a beacon of honesty, mate, aren’t you… anytime you got a cock up your arse, you can’t shut up about how much you like that. Hmm? Never denied _that_ in the fuckin’ slightest, have you.”

Tommy can feel his face grow hot. Mutters “that’s different,” because… well. It is. He can’t just _tell_ Alfie things like that If he doesn’t fucking realize certain things on his own, Tommy isn’t going to give him any pointers. 

“So what,” he says. “Because I tell you what a fucking bastard you are on a regular basis, I must be lying now?”

“Yeah,” Alfie says decisively, like that makes perfect sense, even though it absolutely doesn’t. 

“That makes absolutely no sense,” Tommy says.

“Sure it does,” Alfie says and he’s just trying to be difficult now, Tommy can tell.

“You know,” he says, switching tac, because they won’t get anywhere like this. “You holdin’ out like this isn’t going to make a repeat performance _less_ likely, eh?”

Alfie raises an eyebrow at that, caught off guard and clearly entertained against his will. “Ohh,” he says, mock pity in his voice, probably to hide his amusement. “I’ve been neglecting you, treacle, is that what you’re tellin’ me? Hmmm?”

“Fuck off,” Tommy mutters, because that wasn’t what he said at all, even though… yeah. That is exactly what he’s trying to say here. Alfie’s paying close attention now, in any case, not getting up or trying to walk away. For the first time in days he actually seems… _interested._

Still, Tommy can’t help but ask, “What brought that on, anyway?” because it’s been on his mind the whole time.

“What brought what on.”

“Last week. All worked up like that. Somebody try to run over Sabini or something?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Alfie says, but the strange, sullen mood he’s been in for days seems to be all but gone now, disappeared into thin air. There is a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth; and his hand is back in Tommy’s hair again, same unforgiving grip as before, but now he’s pulling Tommy in, in, in, his other hand busy unbuttoning his fly. “Tell you what. You make this worth my while? Yeah? Maybe I’ll tell you afterwards.”

“Fine, yeah,” Tommy says, already breathless. “Sure.”

There’s a good chance he’ll have forgotten all about it later. It’s been six days, after all, and Alfie’s got that _look_ in his eyes now, the one that means he might draw this out for a long fucking time, the one that makes Tommy feel loose and pliant and like the rest of the world doesn’t even exist. 

“Yeah,” Alfie murmurs. “Yeah, sure. Why not, that’s what I thought Here we go, then. Here we go.”


	14. Aftermath (The Old Guard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **The Old Guard,** Teen and Up Audiences  
> Team, Joe x Nicky  
>   
> The immediate aftermath. Picking up the pieces after Merrick.

1.

The drive is very awkward. 

Nicky is wedged between Booker and Joe, feeling like the city wall that keeps the invading army at bay. Copley’s car is spacious, but not big enough for three grown men to get completely comfortable on the back seat. Nicky’s trying and probably failing not to lean into Booker too much, and ends up pressed close to Joe instead, who’s staring out of the window with the determination of a man ignoring an unsolvable problem so he doesn’t explode in the face of it. 

Booker for his part is staring out the window as well, which might be a hilarious parallel under different circumstances, Nicky thinks, quietly miserable. Doesn’t even dare raise his gaze past the center console for fear of looking directly at Joe, which probably is a good thing right now, all things considered. 

Nicky’s keenly aware that he’s in the middle of an adrenaline crash. Can feel the bone deep exhaustion setting in; limbs heavy, with a dull pounding in his head. The others probably don’t feel much better. There’s movement to his right, and then Joe’s is touching his thigh, fumbling for Nicky’s hand without looking and, still resolutely watching the world go by, interlaces their fingers. 

“You even good to drive?” Nile says suddenly. 

She still seems kind of stunned, shooting all of them careful glances in the rear view mirror and out of the corner of her eye, trying not to make it too obvious.

“I’m fine,” Andy says, and she means it, too. Nicky knows what she sounds like when she’s faking her confidence. 

“Why are you even driving?” Nile continues, stubbornly. “You’re the only one that’s injured.”

“Oh,” Andy says, amused, “So you’re volunteering for left hand traffic?” which gives Nile pause, eyes wandering to the back seat again, clearly considering to volunteer one of them for the job. 

“She’s fine,” Booker mutters.

“If only it were that easy,” Joe says coldly. 

“Let us know if you need somebody else to take over,” Nicky says.

Andy meets his eyes in the rear view mirror. He can’t see the rest of her face, but there must be the approximation of a grin. It’s obvious from her tone when she says, “Don’t I always?” 

“No,” Nicky says, “Not at all,” which earns him a noise from Nile that sounds vaguely amused. 

Regardless of actual distance, Nicky thinks, this is going to be a long fucking drive. 

2.

They’re sitting in the parking lot of the motel. There’s a safe house within a reasonable distance, but they have to get cleaned up first. Have to dispose of the car as well. 

The motel is supposed to be completely automated, no people, no reception, just online reservations and credit cards; so here they are, staring at the terminal through the windshield of the car. 

“I can-” Booker says, which is as far as he gets. 

“No,” Andy says. 

“No,” Nicky says.

“Go _fuck_ yourself,” Joe snaps. 

“I’ll go,” Nile says. 

“Close your jacket,” Nicky says, since the red-rimmed bullet holes are more than visible on her white tank top and, if anybody is around to see, are bound to raise a few eyebrows. 

“Copy that,” she mutters, zipping it up all the way before taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, like a diver about to launch herself from the high board, like an actor about to take the stage. Then she gets out of the car and stands there for a second, waiting to pass inspection. 

“You’re fine,” Booker says. 

“Go,” Andy tells her.

She goes.

If the silence in the car was tense before, it is even more oppressive now. 

“How are you?” Joe says eventually, meaning Andy.

“Holding up,” she says, sounding a lot more tired than she did only a minute ago. Putting up a bit of a front for Nile then, Nicky thinks, which is fine. That was only to be expected. “Not dead yet, in any case.”

Joe almost says something then, and seems to forcibly stop himself, hand spasming underneath Nicky’s palm. _Not for lack of trying._

3.

Nile gets them three double rooms, which seems to strike her as a bit awkward once she tells them about it, considering they’re only five people. 

“We’re not gonna stay long anyway,” Andy says resolutely, and that’s that on the matter.

4.

The door closes behind them with a quiet click that sounds as tired as Nicky feels. 

They stand there for one long second, frozen in place, not looking at each other. 

Nicky has no idea who turns first, but one of them has to, because suddenly they’re in each other’s arms, hugging desperately. Nicky buries his face against Joe’s neck, arms wrapped around his shoulders, holding on as tight as he can. Joe got one arm around his back, the other one curved over the nape of his neck, clutching hard enough to hurt. He smells like blood and sweat, like plaster and gunpowder residue, and he’s solid and warm, and still _here,_ still perfectly alright and in one piece. It feels amazing to touch him again **–** feels like they’ve been apart for _months,_ even though that’s not true at all, but it’s weird that way, sometimes. Nicky is so relieved he’s not sure whether he wants to laugh or cry. 

It’s a distinct possibility, he thinks, that he might never let go of him ever again. 

Joe takes a deep, shuddering breath then, chest expanding, and pulls him even closer. _I love you,_ Nicky thinks, which seems like the smallest, most inconsequential admission he could possibly make, so he doesn’t say it out loud.

5.

They shower together. 

It’s a tired affair, both of them exhausted, sluggishly moving around each other, accommodating each other’s presence with well-worn ease. Still, Nicky feels almost giddy under the warm water, rinsing away new dust and old blood. Takes him a while to get the matted down back of his head clean again, hair clumped together with what is probably brain matter, maybe some residual pieces of skull. 

Since the stall is barely big enough to fit both of them, Joe lets him rinse off first. Waits for Nicky to step out of the shower before he shuffles under the less than impressive spray the shower head provides. In the meantime Nicky pads out into their actual room, toweling off, when suddenly there’s a knock at the door. 

He freezes. Then he throws the towel aside and, eyes trained at the door like it’s a wild animal, fumbles for the pair of pants that is closest. Doesn’t even bother to check which one of them they belong to, just puts them on as fast as he can. Got the nearest gun in hand and the safety off before he even realizes what he’s doing. Here in this room, they’ve got three handguns between them, because Joe didn’t want to walk into the motel holding a machine gun; all of them Glocks, two of them halfway empty, the third one only one bullet down. 

Judging by the weight, Nicky thinks, he’s not holding the third one. 

Calls out “yes?” as he’s closing the bathroom door as quickly and quietly as possible, and hears Booker’s voice say _“it’s me, it’s all good, please open the door”_ in rapid-fire French. It’s one of their oldest, most simple signals **–** if the person answers in a different language than the one the initial question was asked in, everything is fine. 

If they don’t change the language, it’s a clear sign that there’s somebody around who might find that suspicious. Nicky tries to relax his shoulders. There’s an unease coursing through him that’s probably a bit undeserved at this point. 

Nevertheless, he keeps the gun in hand, still unlocked, as he opens the door to let Booker in.

6.

“Nile’s going to patch Andy up,” Booker says. “I’m gonna go get some stuff. Going to get a change of clothes for everyone, too. You guys want anything else?”

“Some food would be nice,” Nicky says. 

“Right, yeah,” Booker says, nodding eagerly. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Okay,” Nicky says.

Booker hesitates. “Listen,” he says quietly, nodding at the bathroom door, because he’s correctly determined that Joe has to be in there. “How mad… I mean, I know he’s pissed off, and I get it, but do you think, maybe-”

Nicky follows his gaze. Can practically _see_ Joe moving around inside their little motel bathroom- or, well. He’s probably eavesdropping now, but still, Nicky can’t help but imagine how he puts the complimentary toiletries in order before stepping out of the shower, usually, or how he always hangs up his used towel instead of just leaving it somewhere. Thinks of the way his wet curls will be dripping into his eyes, the way his beautiful shoulders will be slumped with exhaustion, and all of a sudden he’s hit with a wave of anger so visceral it shocks him to his core. 

_Shut the fuck up,_ he thinks, so livid he’s near boiling with rage. 

Booker does _not_ get to talk about Joe right now, not after Nicky spent the last 48 hours watching him die senselessly, over and over and over again, for no fucking reason at all. Has no idea what might be showing on his face, but Booker is blinking at him, taken aback. 

“Anything else?” Nicky manages. Demonstratively puts the safety back on, because… well. What else is he supposed to do? 

“No,” Booker says. “No, I’ll- I guess I’ll see you guys in a bit.”

7.

Naturally, when he knocks on their door again about fifty minutes later, Joe is out of the shower and has been for a while. Booker’s somewhat hopeful expression disappears the second he spots him.

“Here you go,” he murmurs, handing Nicky two plastic bags, one of them from a cheap clothing brand, one of them clearly from the nearest supermarket. Nicky wants to say thank you and can’t bring himself to do it. Behind his back, Joe has been remarkably quiet, at least until Booker says, “oh, shit, hang on,” and starts digging into one of the bags.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Joe says.

“Listen,” Booker says, not even looking at him, too busy searching for… something. Nicky has no idea. “I know you’re fucking angry, alright, believe me, I’ve _noticed-”_

“Oh, you’ve noticed,” Joe says. “That’s very good of you to fucking _notice,_ you backstabbing-”

“Booker,” Nicky says. He’s still holding onto the the bags when Booker, miraculously, starts pulling out more plastic bags; not at all sure what he’s feeling right now. He doesn’t think he’s angry, though he couldn’t say for sure. “Just go.”

“Andy needs these,” Booker says, flustered. “To, to take a shower-”

“And why does she need these to take a shower again?” Joe says, too loud. “Any guesses? Huh? Maybe if you hadn’t-”

“Yes, _I know,”_ Booker says, and now he’s shouting too, clutching at his plastic bags like a lifeline. “You’re fucking angry, I am _aware!_ We’re all _aware,_ the entire greater London _area_ is probably aware of how angry you are! _We know!_ I already told you, you have no idea what is was _like-”_

“Ohh no, it makes _perfect sense,”_ Joe explodes. “You’re a fucking miserable piece of shit, so _obviously_ you had to go and ruin it for the rest of us!”

Booker’s face falls. He’s silent for a long moment, red-faced and seemingly at a loss.

“Anything else?” he says then.

“Yes, actually,” Joe says, dangerously casual all of a sudden, “Just, one more thing, while we’re at it.”

“That’s really not-” Nicky says, alarmed, realizing just a millisecond too late what’s going to happen; namely that Joe is about to punch Booker in the stomach, but what can he say. It’s been a long few days. Joe’s clever about it too, using his left, which is his non-dominant hand, so Booker doesn’t see it coming. Doubles over with a breathless grunt, air going out of him, and then Joe, adding injury to… well, _injury,_ decides to ram one knee right into his face. 

Booker’s nose gives way with a sickening crunch. 

“-necessary,” Nicky finishes, exasperated. 

_“Fuck!”_ Booker coughs, muffled. He’s spitting blood on the carpet as he says it, intentional or not, who can say. 

“Noooo, no, fuck _you,”_ Joe says, in the same tone somebody else might say, _“no, really, the pleasure’s all mine.”_

“Right,” Nicky says, inserting himself between them. Booker seems frozen in place, pinching at the bridge of his nose, but Joe is moved easily enough **–** doesn’t protest when Nicky grabs his elbow and guides him a few feet away. “That’s enough. Booker, thank you-”

“Don’t _thank_ him,” Joe, predictably, spits behind him.

“We’ll check in with you guys in a bit,” Nicky says, talking right over him. 

“Yeah,” Booker mutters. He seems defeated, like a dog that was kicked too many times. There’s blood on his face, dripping into his mouth, staining the collar of his shirt, but his nose has already started to heal. “Yeah, okay.” 

He leaves.

8.

There’s packets of everything **–** five pairs of socks, five pair of underwear. Three t-shirts, laminated together, in varying shades of gray. Two pairs of black cargo pants, two hoodies in exactly the same size, one dark green, one black. No shoes, because theirs are mostly fine, so they can stay as they are. 

The other bag contains food. Nicky goes through it quickly **–** water bottles, pre-packaged sandwiches, power bars and chocolate. Bananas and two apples. Notices that all of the sandwiches are Joe’s preferred kind, chicken and tuna fish, no ham or bacon in sight. Can’t help but sigh, tired and exhausted.

“What?” Joe says from the other side of the room, very clearly trying not to sound too alarmed. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Nicky says and hands him the bag with the clothes so he can start to open the plastic packaging. “Here you go.”

They get dressed in companionable silence. When Nicky peels off his dirty, blood-stained pants again, Joe wolf-whistles at him, looking unreasonably happy when Nicky snorts helplessly. Everything seems a lot lighter all of a sudden. A lot more bearable. 

A few minutes later, Joe plasters himself against Nicky’s back for one long, indulgent moment, chin hooked over his shoulder, Nicky spanning both of his wrists with his hands. Can’t help the soft, content noise when Joe presses a kiss to his ear. 

They eat, sprawled out all over the bed that’s closer to the door, the one they’re not going to sleep in, both of them ravenous. If Joe notices Booker’s choices, he doesn’t say anything, but he seems a lot calmer now. Needed to get his initial reaction out of the way, the one he had to put aside because there wasn’t any time for it. Joe isn’t good at compartmentalizing over longer periods of time. 

_We can do this,_ Nicky thinks, absentmindedly handing over a power bar that has peanut butter in it, because personally, he’s not a fan. 

_We’ve done it before. We’ll do it again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fucked up with this one, because for whatever reason I convinced myself that Nile was in the passenger seat when actually, it's Joe. But whatever. That's where the fiction-part comes in lmao.


	15. On the road (The Old Guard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **The Old Guard,** Teen and Up Audiences  
> Joe x Nicky  
>   
> Two semi-strangers, traveling. (Pre-canon.)

1.

The Frank is completely useless at getting a fire going. 

He valiantly _tries,_ his face a rigid mask of concentration and consternation, no doubt irritated at being observed, and sure, he always ends up being successful eventually, but it takes half an eternity. 

Yusuf is trying very hard not to judge. 

This is a lie. He _is_ judging, a great many things as a matter of fact, but he’s trying not to let it show. They’ve agreed to be civil for now, after all.

2.

They’re both standing at the edge of the water a bit awkwardly. Haven’t come across any travelers in two days and the creek is not exactly visible from the road, but still. Going in means leaving one’s weapons behind. 

“One after the other,” Yusuf says. “Yes?”

Nicolo understands most of what he’s saying, they’ve figured out that much. He’s just very reluctant to speak. Yusuf’s not quite sure why that might be, but if he had to guess he’d say it’s due to embarrassment, a sullen refusal to make a fool of himself. It’s a bit ridiculous, Yusuf thinks, a clear sign of arrogance. His vocabulary seems to be perfectly serviceable, even if it is limited, and his pronunciation isn’t half bad. He’s making mistakes, yes, but then again – so does Yusuf, and _he’s_ never let that stop him before. 

Nicolo is nodding now, contemplative, looking back towards where the road, obscured by trees, is bound to wind its way through the forest. 

“You first,” he says. 

“Fine.”

“I will watch.”

Yusuf blinks at him, taken aback, because it takes him a moment to understand the actual meaning. It’s clear Nicolo realizes he’s said something wrong immediately, either because he notices the mistake himself or because he notices Yusuf’s reaction and extrapolates from there. 

“I-” he says, furrowing his brow, and then, in an impatient attempt to clarify. “Not _you.”_

Seems quietly annoyed, because that is his reaction to most things, himself included, which… Yusuf resists the urge to roll his eyes. It’s not like it’s some horrible thing, making a simple mistake. 

“You will keep watch?” he says, intending to be helpful, but Nicolo’s expression darkens even further at the correction.

He shrugs and turns away, which is an answer in of itself, Yusuf supposes. At least he’s staring in the direction of the road now, hand curled loosely around the hilt of his sword, which is probably supposed to convey that they’re on the same page here. 

Yusuf does roll his eyes then, unobserved, and starts shedding his clothes. Contemplates keeping his dagger on him, but in all honesty, there’s no point. Not like he can get permanently harmed, and apart from that… Nicolo is somewhat skilled in combat, at least. If he’s keeping an eye out, things should be fine unless an entire army decides to find them, in which case… well. They’ll have bigger things to worry about anyway.

He’s completely naked when Nicolo decides to turn around again, because of course he fucking is. It is very awkward, not because Yusuf feels ashamed, but because he’s not sure if Nicolo thinks he ought to be ashamed or not. Christians seem to have some very strange worldviews. 

“You…” Nicolo says right to his face, looking supremely unimpressed. “You know… swimming, yes?”

“Yes,” Yusuf says. The question itself sounds fucking condescending, but the intent behind it seems to be a thoughtful one at least. Then again, who knows – maybe Nicolo just wants to make sure he won’t have to drag Yusuf’s lifeless body out of the water in a moment or two. 

He pointedly asks, “Do you?”

 _“Yes,”_ Nicolo says, offended. Then he gets the same look on his face he always does when there’s something else he wants to add, but is hindered by the language barrier and falls quiet instead.

“What?” Yusuf prompts, intrigued despite himself. 

This is a very strange conversation to have while naked, he thinks. Considers picking his trousers back up, but then he’d just draw attention to the ridiculousness of it all. 

“I… Genova,” Nicolo says. “My home. It is a town at… the sea?” Then he adds with a flailing little gesture, “Ships.”

“A harbor,” Yusuf supplies helpfully. 

Nicolo points at him, triumphant, and says “Yes. So you understand, I swim.”

“Of course,” Yusuf says, maybe a tad bit derisive at his serious tone, but for once in their not so short-lived acquaintance, Nicolo does not seem to mind. “Neither one of us is in danger of drowning, then.”

Nicky tilts his head at that, contemplating – because he doesn’t recognize a word, Yusuf realizes. 

“Drowning,” Nicolo says, slowly. “You mean-”

Yusuf makes a garbled noise, rolling his eyes towards the heavens, brings one hand up to clutch at his throat for good measure; then lets his head fall forward dramatically, neck muscles going slack. _Out of air. Dead._

Nicky is watching him closely, looking surprised and maybe a bit amused at the display. 

“Ah,” he says, very dry _. “Drowning.”_

“Yes,” Yusuf says and does a little bow to signal the end of his performance, arms spread wide. It would probably be a lot more dignified if he was wearing clothes. Realizes that Nicolo is actually staring at him now, with his fucking cat-eyes, looking him up and down like he’s taking measure. Seems almost caught off guard when Yusuf widens his eyes at him like a challenge. _Can I fucking help you?_

Turns away again, awkwardly, with a flick of his wrist in Yusuf’s direction that clearly means, _well, get on with it then._

Yusuf does.

3.

Nicolo, it turns out, not only _does_ know how to swim, but he seems to enjoy it, too. Completely forgets about Yusuf’s presence as soon as he’s in the water; disappearing underneath the surface for long periods of time only to come splashing back up again, blissfully happy.

It’s not strictly speaking functional, especially not once he starts spreading his arms wide to just let himself drift, but it’s not like they have places to be, so there’s probably no harm in it, Yusuf figures. He keeps an eye out for any disturbance that might indicate the presence of other people, but there’s nothing except the warm grass underneath his bare feet and the sun, drying his skin and his damp hair.

When Nicolo finally deigns to get out of the water, Yusuf is staring pointedly – returning the favor, so to speak. Nicolo is terribly pale, and his slicked-back hair makes his pronounced features look even more unfortunate. Raises his chin like a challenge when he notices Yusuf looking at him, but he still sits only an arm’s length away, presumably to wait until he’s dried off a bit, before he’ll put his clothes back on. 

Yusuf won’t lie, he has contemplated hiding a shoe, but ultimately decided to rise above such petty temptations. 

“What,” Nicolo says, flat and unamused.

“Nothing,” Yusuf says. “I was not aware you were a fish.”

Something flashes over Nicolo’s face, probably some retort that would be withering if he could only manage to translate it in his head, but alas, he can’t.

“Not aware of a _lot_ of things,” he mutters instead, sullen, which is clearly not what he actually wanted to say, but it’s a valiant try, Yusuf will give him that. 

4.

Much later, they have already settled down for the night, Yusuf says, “You’re a good swimmer.”

Why he’s decided to tell him this, he has no idea. It’s the truth, in any case. It doesn’t count as a compliment if he’s just stating a fact. There is a long silence, the lump in the darkness that is Nicolo’s resting form quiet and unmoving. 

“Tomorrow,” Nicolo’s voice says then, no-nonsense as always. “You do the fire.”

“Great,” Yusuf says, trying not to feel too flattered, because… well. 

That just makes sense.


	16. Milestone I (The Old Guard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **The Old Guard,** Teen and Up Audiences  
> Team, Joe x Nicky  
>   
> Joe has been missing in action for four days.

Joe has been MIA for four days and counting. 

They’ve been combing the jungle looking for him, naturally, but given that they’re supposed to keep a low profile, and the fact that Joe might have gone down an actual waterfall (nobody’s quite sure what happened after he ended up in the river) it has been a fruitless endeavor. 

Nicky is about ready to steal a helicopter from the nearest base and consequences be damned, but it hasn’t been a week _yet._ Nile keeps telling him to at least get some sleep. So far, Nick has managed to refrain from telling her to mind her own business. Andy keeps telling him the same thing. Nicky has zero qualms about telling _her_ to fuck all the way off.

Joe shows up six days in, looking like shit; like he just spent the last few days dragging himself through the jungle with almost no supplies, which is exactly what happened. He also is absolutely, perfectly fine. Nicky freezes at the sight of him – for some strange reason his heart decides that _now_ is the time to start hammering against his chest like something is actually wrong, adrenaline kicking in – and then he jumps up, wordlessly pulls him into a hug, and doesn’t let go for a full minute. 

“I had to deal with a tiger,” Joe says, later. He’s wolfing down what’s left of their provisions (because their stay is already six days longer than they actually planned for, because they weren’t going to leave him behind), ravenous, sitting next to Nicky, close enough so their shoulders are pressing together. “A tiger! Can you believe that?” 

“Please tell me you didn’t kill a tiger,” Nile says. “They’re endangered!”

There is a beat, then Joe, still chewing, mutters “… ’course I didn’t.”

“Oh, _come_ on,” Nile says. 

“Tiger came for me first,” Joe says, exasperated. “If anything, the damn thing started it!”

“How does that phrase go,” Andy muses, “It takes two to tango?” and then grins even wider when Joe rolls his eyes at her. 

“I need a shower,” he says. “And to burn these clothes." 

He ends up doing neither of those things, not really, because all they’ve got is a tiny portable shower which is just about helpful for rinsing off, and because as sweat-soaked and dirty and ripped as his clothes are, they’re not going to leave the evidence behind. So while Joe washes off about a week’s worth of blood and grime, Nicky folds everything neatly (or well… Joe probably wouldn’t consider it neat exactly, but it’s close enough for Nicky’s standards) and shoves it down his backpack. 

Joe falls into bed right after, wearing a mostly clean set of spare clothes, substituted with one of Nicky’s t-shirts. _Bed_ in this case amounts to their usual nest of two mats and two sleeping bags piled right next to each other on the floor, and Nicky crawls in right after him. Joe doesn’t question it, nor does he bother to point out the fact that it’s still mostly light out. Just fits himself to Nicky’s back with well-worn ease, wraps an arm around his waist to pull him close, and then he’s out like a light.

Nicky is perfectly content to just lie there for a while, tired but not sleepy at all, listening to Joe’s slow breathing, holding onto his wrist, thumb stroking over the back of his hand. He hears Nile come in a while after that, turning in early as well because they’ve got a three hour hike to the rendezvous site tomorrow morning; listens to the rustling of her sleeping bag as she settles down.

He doesn’t hear Andy, but when he wakes up what feels like hours later, everything is dark and decidedly _not_ quiet, because they’re in the jungle and the jungle is full of life, and life is _loud,_ and everybody is accounted for. Turns over underneath Joe’s slack arm, curling towards him, just because he feels like it, just so he can look at the vague outline of his face. 

Doesn’t quite realize the movement must’ve woken Joe up until he stirs, brow furrowing, blinking his eyes open with what seems to be confusion. 

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Nicky mutters, carefully quiet, because they’re not the only people sleeping in this room. “I’m sorry.”

“S’fine,” Joe murmurs, one hand unerringly finding Nicky’s hip. “M’sorry I took so long. Fuckin’ tiger cost me at least a day.”

“They’re _endangered,”_ Nicky says, mimicking Nile’s scandalized tone. 

Joe chuckles at that, but his eyes are fluttering closed, and Nicky thinks he’s already falling asleep again, but then he carefully inches forward instead, gently fitting their mouths together. Nicky makes a low, desperate noise and melts into the kiss immediately. They make out for what feels like a long time, slow and lazy, blanketed by darkness. 

“I am really looking forward to civilization,” Nicky murmurs eventually, breathless despite the slow pace. He’s got one hand fisted in the fabric right over Joe’s heart. Joe’s warm hand has slipped underneath Nicky’s t-shirt, stroking over the hipbone with his thumb. 

“Yeah?”, Joe mutters back. “Anything in particular?”

“Well,” Nicky says seriously. They’re not quite plastered to each other, but close enough to feel the heat radiating off of him, to smell his sweat. “For one, I think we can both agree that things like… I don’t know, you fucking me through the mattress would require a _mattress,_ yes?”

Joe inhales slowly at that, very controlled. 

“I see,” he says, low and amused, but there’s that unmistakable undertone to his voice, the one that means he’s _interested._ “I wasn’t aware you had made plans already.”

“Ohhh yes,” Nicky says, matter of fact. “I _think_ I want you to put me on my hands and knees.”

Joe’s hand moves, then; slides over Nicky’s hip and down to the small of his back, pulling him in so they’re flush against each other. Nicky shudders at the contact, a gentle shiver of arousal running down his spine. 

“That’s what you think you want, huh?” Joe says. 

They don’t do it like that often, Nicky thinks, hands and knees, like they did the very first time they actually fucked – both of them terrified and so turned on it had felt like a burst of madness that had come out of nowhere, bewildered by the intensity of it all. They’d been strangers still, in some ways, even though they’d been reluctantly traveling together for over five years. 

Nicky still remembers it, or at the very least he likes to think he does – maybe he just remembers the _memory_ of it, well-worn and frayed like a beloved chapter in a book, but something about it will stick with him until the day he finally closes his eyes for good. 

They’d both had… relations with other men before, and they’d been in and out of each other’s beds for a while at that point, but Nicky had never done _this_ with anyone and for reasons that seemed inexplicable at the time, with Joe he had wanted it so much it was honestly embarrassing. Probably trying to show off or something, he’d thought at the time, because Joe was usually so fucking calm and collected about _everything_ they did, but he seemed really nervous about this. 

Asked Nicky if he was sure about ten times beforehand, which was amusing, Nicky was not going to lie, and also very gratifying; because _he_ wanted it, yes, but he also wanted _Yusuf_ to want it, because Yusuf was a funny, unflappable, self-assured bastard, and Nicky wanted to get under his skin more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.

Yusuf was very gentle with him, which Nicky found irritating to no end – right up until he wasn’t anymore. Nicky distinctly remembers being shocked at how his own voice sounded, once they really got going, at how his back was curving without his permission, arching into it, anytime Joe pushed deep, at how he couldn’t manage a single coherent thought the whole way through. 

“Nico,” Joe murmurs now. Nicky couldn’t even say how he knows this, but they’re both thinking about that first time now, they’re on the same page here, it’s fucking _obvious._

“You’re gonna put me on my hands and knees,” Nicky continues, idly nosing at his cheek, pushing their foreheads together. They’re both turned on by the idea of it and by the memory as well, and they both know it, too. For some reason, the knowledge that they’re not going to do anything about it tonight makes it even better, simmering comfortable and hot between them. “And I will love it, because it is always _so good_ and I love being like that for you-”

Joe kisses him then, probably to shut him up as much as anything, slides his tongue into Nicky’s mouth, which makes Nicky’s stomach flip clean over, both of them trying to press even closer. 

“That is a very nice plan,” Joe murmurs eventually. 

“I know,” Nicky says.

“I am very much on board with this plan.”

_“Good.”_

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Andy’s disembodied voice comes from her corner, rough with sleep. “You guys still talking? People are trying to _sleep_ over here.”

“Sorry,” Nicky says, trying to sound sheepish.

“I’ve had a rough few days,” Joe says, unapologetic. “If I want to speak to Nicolo in the middle of the night, I will.”

“Do it _quietly,_ then.”

“I _am.”_

 _“Wha-”_ Nile’s voice says, clearly just waking up this very second. “What’s going on? Everything alright?”

“Yes, everything is fine,” Nicky tells her, at the same time as Joe tells Andy, affronted, “See what you did?”

“Oh, shut up,” Andy says, unimpressed. 

“What’s going on?” Nile says. 

“Nothing,” Nicky says. “Everybody just go back to sleep, alright?”

There’s a derisive snort from Andy and a disgruntled noise from Nile as she turns over, settling back down again. In their own private cocoon, Joe presses a kiss to the top of Nicky’s head. Nicky can feel him smiling into it. 

“Civilization then,” Joe says, so low it’s almost inaudible. “Yes?”

“Mhh-hmm,” Nicky says, more sigh then actual sound and settles more comfortably against him. “Yes.”

And then he doesn’t say anything more, because Joe has already fallen asleep again. 


	17. Milestone II (The Old Guard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **The Old Guard,** Explicit  
> Joe x Nicky  
>   
> The porn sequel.

Nicky wakes up all by himself. 

They got back from Brazil two days ago. They’ve mostly been asleep since then. 

He heaves himself upright. Scrubs a tired hand over his face, scratches fingers through his hair. Usually, it’s him who gets out of bed first, but every once in a blue moon, Joe manages to beat him to it. There’s a glass of water sitting on the nightstand that definitely wasn’t there before. Nicky blinks at it for a few long seconds, disoriented and confused, before realizing how parched he actually is and downs the entire thing in one go.

He can hear Joe moving around in the next room, door ever so slightly ajar. Working out, he realizes, at least judging by the quiet noises, which turns out to be a correct assumption. 

Joe is on the floor, currently doing sit-ups on a lime green yoga mat in nothing but his underwear and the t-shirt he slept in – probably because he’s planning on throwing it all in the wash afterwards. When he spots Nicky, he pushes himself up one more time and then just sits there; puts both elbows on top of his knees and lets his arms dangle.

“Morning,” he says – barely out of breath, even though he must’ve been at it for a while, judging by how dark the stains on his t-shirt are. “I was going to run out after this, get us some breakfast. Currently, the only thing in the kitchen is coffee.”

“Hmm,” Nicky says, non-committal, because he’s well aware of this fact already. Also, he _is_ hungry, now that he thinks about it, but it’s barely worth mentioning yet; he’s had so much worse. Ambles into the room instead of an actual answer and sinks down to his knees at the edge of the training mat; balances on both palms as he leans over to kiss Joe. 

There’s two hands cupping his face, pulling him in carefully, like he’s some precious, breakable thing. The kiss is slow, unhurried. Nicky shuffles over, still on his knees, and clambers into Joe’s lap, which earns him a low, satisfied noise. God, but he feels good, solid and warm from the exercise, already wrapping one arm around Nicky’s waist, pulling him close. 

Nicky is not quite sure what changes or when exactly it happens, just that some switch has been flipped, from one moment to the next, because he puts his hands on Joe’s shoulders, digging his fingers in, and Joe is digging his fingers into his hip in relation, clutching at him, and all of a sudden they’re _grappling_ with each other, trying to push each other down, pin each other to the floor.

They’re both seriously trying, for all that they’re laughing like idiots, trying to get the upper hand like they would in any fight. Maybe it’s because Joe is already warmed up and Nicky literally just rolled out of bed or maybe it’s because Nicky wants him to win, but after a heated scramble for control he ends up being the one lying on his back. 

They’re not even on the mat anymore, because that thing is just big enough for one person staying in one spot and nothing more. Nicky puts both hands against Joe’s chest and pushes, bucking up from the ground at the same time, and manages to roll them back over again, except Joe is expecting it (of course he is, how could he not, they _know_ each other) and just keeps the momentum going, and now they’re on the other side of the mat, with Nicky still flat on his back and Joe heavy on top of him. 

“Hah,” Joe says, triumphant, grinning from ear to ear and Nicky can’t help himself – _has_ to rear up and kiss him again, lick into his mouth, eager and proprietary at the same time. Joe’s hand cups the back of his head, so it cushions the impact and bears down on him again. 

“Come back to bed,” Nicky pants, right against his mouth, both of his legs already wrapping around his waist like on autopilot, which might be counterproductive, but that’s really not his problem. God, the way Joe smells, how damp his t-shirt feels underneath Nicky’s hands, how easily he drags it over his head and shrugs off when Nicky starts tugging at it. 

“And why would I do that,” Joe says, kissing him again before he can answer. “Maybe I’m busy. Maybe I was in the middle of something.”

“So what,” Nicky says, unimpressed. Rolls his hips for good measure and watches Joe’s eyes go dark. 

“Right,” he murmurs, dropping the act. “If I remember correctly, there was something you had in mind.”

“Oh, I’m not sure,” Nicky says, contemplative. They’re grinding against each other now, completely shameless about it, getting each other all worked up. “I vaguely remember saying something about… what was it?”

“Being put on your hands and knees,” Joe supplies helpfully, brow furrowed, pretending he has to really think about it. “I might be wrong.”

“No,” Nicky says, staring up at him through half-lidded eyes. His mouth already feels bruised and he gently tongues his lower lip, just so he can watch the expression on Joe’s face. “No, that… that sounds about right.”

“Right,” Joe mutters again. “Let’s see what we can do about that, shall we?”

* * *

_“Fuuuuck,”_ Nicky groans about fifteen minutes later, the first time Joe actually pushes deep. 

“Nothing gets past you,” Joe says, sounding amused, but he’s already panting. 

“I am very observant,” Nicky manages, feeling just as breathless as Joe sounds. This is going to be _fun,_ Nicky can already tell. 

Joe’s got him by the hips – he’s never cruel or selfish, but he also has no problems being a bit rough when the mood is right, when he can tell Nicky wants him to be – so right now there’s no leeway at all, Joe’s _got_ him and he’s going to move him whichever way he wants him to go.

“Fuck,” Nicky huffs again, the next time Joe fucks into him. “Yes, _that-_ oh. C’mon, c’mon, fucking- _hn-”_

“Yes, I can see that now,” Joe says, mocking. _“Very_ observant.”

He then proceeds to fuck him until both of them are a _mess,_ mindless and incoherent with it.

When Nicky finally remembers to fumble for his own dick, heavy and throbbing between his legs, he actually buckles, catching himself on one underarm. It changes the angle, being bent over like that, in a way that makes him bury his face against the bedding and _moan,_ a sound that feels like it was ripped out of him, momentarily distracted from his goal.

“Oh, _God, fuck-_ yes, _please,_ like that,” and he’s whining now, couldn’t stop himself if he wanted to; can hear Joe take a long, unsteady breath at the sound of it, need fanning out between them like an inivisible web, connected by a million delicate tendrils. He manages to fist his dick, first contact making him hiss through his teeth with delight. Joe is doubling down now; he has settled in for the long haul, fucking him nice and steady, sure of himself and what he’s doing in a way that makes Nicky want to fucking _live_ on his hands and knees, never do anything else ever again, because why would he when it feels like _this._

Might not take long after all, he thinks, dazed, because he can feel his orgasm forming already, despite the fact he barely manages any rhythm at all as he’s stroking himself, his own touch gone shaky and erratic. Joe’s breathing is beginning to turn harsh, a surefire sign he’s getting close, which… there’s no logical reason that knowledge should make Nicky’s stomach flip, should make his face feel hot and his whole body flooding with desire, but it’s Joe and it _does._

His free hand is clutching at the bedsheet when he starts coming, fingers twisting into the fabric at the pleasure washing over him in long, shuddering waves. He can’t do anything but ride it out, moaning helplessly anytime Joe hits his prostate again, because Joe doesn’t stop, Joe is fucking him through it all, Joe’s got him, Joe knows how to make this _good, so good-_

He realizes Joe has started coming as well when he sinks down on top of him, fucking into him mindlessly, rhythm gone out the window completely. Nicky tries to move his leg up the bed a bit, spread himself even wider, wanting _everything._ Grunts in surprise when Joe grabs for his thigh, digging his fingers in, holding him in place, which- 

_“Fuck,”_ he moans, high and desparate, because Jesus Christ, he’s already shaking and it feels like he hasn’t even stopped coming yet. Joe’s mouth is pressed against his shoulder blade, scraping with his teeth, breath hot and damp against Nicky’s skin, and he’s groaning, low and helpless, almost like he’s in pain. 

Nicky reaches blindly over his shoulder and pushes a hand into Joe’s hair, holding on, keeping him close. 

_“God,”_ Joe pants. “You’re _so-_ this is- that was an _fantastic_ fucking plan, _Nico-”_

“Thank you,” Nicky pants back, affectionately tugging at his curls a bit for good measure. 

Fuck, but he feels amazing; exhausted and sated, satisfied to his very core. Joe is nuzzling the side of his neck now, still on top of him, like he plans to never move again. Nicky sighs happily.

They lie there for a bit, like they’re in a daze, reluctant to move. 

“What was that about breakfast?” Nicky murmurs eventually. Smiles into the crook of his own arm when Joe kisses his ear. 

“Shower first,” he says. “At least for me. Do you want to go out?”

“Hmmm,” Nicky hums lazily, craning his neck for a quick kiss before Joe can get up and out of bed. “Sure, yes. Why not.”

He’s actually, properly hungry now, he realizes, which is just as well. Excellent timing and all that. 


	18. Humble beginnings (The Old Guard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **The Old Guard,** Teen and Up Audiences  
> Joe x Nicky  
>   
> Enemies, becoming strangers, becoming... something else. (Pre-canon.)

The very first thing they ever actually say to each other is quite literally lost in translation.

Yusuf holds out the longsword he picked up for long moments, feeling like a complete and utter imbecile. There is no reaction. The Frank just stares at him, with his cat eyes narrowed suspiciously. He’s gone utterly still, frozen in place.

“Fine,” Yusuf murmurs eventually. “Don’t take it back, then.”

He demonstratively stabs the sword into the ground, so it sticks up like some ominous, blood-stained metal flower, and takes a few steps back. It feels like luring some wild animal out in the open, which might not be too far off, Yusuf thinks bitterly, given all the pain and destruction and death these people have caused for no good reason at all.

“This thing is very impractical, by the way,” he says. Doesn’t know why he’s still talking, since the Frank and the irritated expression on his face very obviously have no idea what is being said. All Yusuf knows is that their entire situation feels almost comically awkward, even though nothing could be further from the truth. “Entirely unwieldy. I don’t know how you do it.”

This time around, there’s an answer – or at the very least there’s a verbal reaction, in a hoarse voice that scrapes over unfamiliar syllables. Not exactly pleasant-sounding, Yusuf thinks, though to be fair, that might simply be due to the fact that the Frank has had the side of his neck slashed open not too long ago. The blood soaking into his collar doesn’t even look entirely dry yet.

“Yes, well,” Yusuf says sarcastically, watching him approach the sword stuck in the ground carefully, like he’s expecting the helpful gesture to be a trap of some kind. Yusuf keeps his hand on the hilt of his own scimitar just in case, well aware that the Franks seems well aware of this fact. “You are most welcome, you ungrateful bastard.”

Maybe the insult sparks recognition, maybe it doesn’t. In any case, the Frank looks up sharply all of a sudden. Chances are he’s heard it before, Yusuf thinks, and probably well deserved, too.

“Yusuf,” he offers reluctantly, which earns him nothing but another narrowing of eyes, and points to himself for good measure. For some horrible, inexplicable reason, it almost feels like making advances somehow; making an offer and hoping it won’t be ill received. Hoping you won’t be refused, even, which… not like Yusuf _cares_ all that much. It just seems like the thing to do, after you’ve murder and maimed a man multiple times without any tangible results.

The Frank has taken a few steps backwards again, effectively taking himself out of striking distance just in case, which isn’t something Yusuf can blame him for, really. What he can blame him for is the stupidly blank stare on his face, because honestly… it’s a simple name, Yusuf thinks, feeling inexplicably embarrassed. What is so fucking difficult about that?

After what seems to be long and careful consideration, the Frank finally says something, half-heartedly gesturing to himself.

“What?”

_“Nicolo.”_

“Huh,” Yusuf says, unimpressed. It’s a start, he supposes. Even if they both very clearly have no idea where to go from here.

* * *

The Frank, as it turns out, is a somewhat decent cook. He can’t get a fire going in a timely manner to save his life and everything he makes tastes a bit boring, but he’s very efficient at catching animals. Knows how to skin, pluck and dismember them, with the practiced ease of somebody who’s done it before many times. Knows which parts to cook and which parts to roast, and for how long as well.

He’s never seen or tried dates before and he’s clearly unaware most spices exist, but he seems to be familiar with most vegetables at least.

Yusuf decides early on not to criticize too much, because _he’s_ factually useless. His entire skill set consists of the ability to hold things over a fire until they’ve changed color enough to hopefully be edible. The Frank doesn’t seem to mind the lack of contribution. If anything, he seems satisfied with the lack of interference.

One less thing to butt heads over, in any case.

* * *

Yusuf is blessedly unaware of the fact that he thinks of Nicolo’s eyes as _cat eyes_ inside his own head more often than not and for no discernible reason at all; until one day, many months into their involuntary travels, he manages to say it out loud and promptly freezes, mortified.

“…what?” Nicolo says, looking confused.

Yusuf decides then and there to throw himself down the next ravine they come across.

“Nothing,” he says hastily. 

A few blissful weeks ago, this would have been it, end of conversation. Nicolo would have frowned and sullen silence would have descended upon them once again. Alas, it is not to be. At some point they’ve actually started to talk to each other. It’s probably too late to put a sensible stop to it now.

“A cat?” Nicolo says, because he is _incapable_ of letting things go. “The animal, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I have… my eyes are like a cat?”

“It really is of no importance-”

“But… like the animal, yes?”

Yusuf realizes then that Nicolo is probably trying to work out if the remark was supposed to be an insult or not.

“The _color,”_ he says. The ravine can’t come soon enough. “That is all. They’re just… it’s a bit similar to…” He trails off with a gesture, reluctantly waving his hand around in a circle.

“A cat,” Nicolo finishes wryly. 

“A _bit,”_ Yusuf says again. 

He used to be good at this, he thinks bitterly. He used to be brilliant at making conversation, everybody said so. Used to _enjoy_ it, too. Now he’s doomed to an existence wherein every sentence is bound to be tentative and stilted and decidedly awkward. Nicolo is still watching him with his fucking cat eyes. Yusuf wonders if people even like cats where he comes from. Maybe Nicolo thinks they’re cursed animals.

“What,” he says, irritated, which… again. He used to be good at this. Witty. Funny. _Charming._ It’s not his fault his audience has been reduced to a single, pale, utterly joyless individual who _insists_ on being morose.

Nicolo shrugs.

“That is really not…” he says, searching for the words. He’s gotten bolder over time, less embarrassed about making mistakes, for all he doesn’t really seem to care about actually improving his grammar. “…a very important thing, no? The color of the eyes. Why do you even notice?”

“I don’t?” Yusuf says. It comes out sounding like a question, voice going up at the end, so he has to say it again. “I don’t notice. And what do you mean, of _course_ it’s important.”

“Why?”

“You think it isn’t?”

Nicolo shrugs. “No.”

“What a bleak existence you must lead,” Yusuf says.

“Bleak…?”

“Sad,” Yusuf clarifies. “No joy to be found.”

“No,” Nicolo agrees immediately, very seriously. “No joy. None.”

It takes Yusuf a second to realize that he’s joking.

“The eyes are very important, I’ll have you know,” he declares dramatically. “They tell you everything about a person.”

At that, Nicolo straightens his shoulders, staring right at him. This time around the seriousness is not an act, Yusuf can tell.

“Hmm,” Nicolo says. “Brown.”

“What?”

 _“Your_ eyes,” Nicolo says determinedly, like this is some sort of task he feels compelled to complete. “They are brown.”

A few moments of uncomfortable silence descend upon them.

“Thank you,” Yusuf says finally, dryly. “What a lovely compliment to receive.”

“Comparing me to a cat is a compliment, then?” Nicolo counters immediately. He’s actually being sarcastic now. Yusuf is almost impressed.

“Not a cat,” Yusuf says. “Well. Not the entire cat. You’re walking around on two legs, after all.”

“Not just the eyes,” Nicolo says in a mock-adoring tone, still sounding utterly sarcastic. “You notice _everything._ Impressive.”

Yusuf gives him a shove, then, though not very hard – and if he’s pleased at the rare grin that gets him, well. That is nobody’s business but his own.


	19. Drunk Prompt (The Old Guard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **The Old Guard,** Explicit  
> Joe x Nicky  
>   
> These were some prompts given to me while I was drunk and in the mood to write some porn:  
> \- joe x nicky + hair pulling kink, pretty please?  
> \- nsfw prompt Joe and Nicky and idk blowjobs?  
> \- nsfw prompt: Nicky’s work is having a zoom hangout / dinner type meeting and reimbursing them for anything we order like pizza / alcohol (see what I did there?) and Nicky is a little drunk when Joe gets home. And then things get kinda hot. :-)

Joe gets back to their apartment, face stinging from the cold outside and with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, just in time to wave goodbye to Nile over the webcam. Nicky has been talking to her for a while, apparently, f the empty wine bottle right next to the laptop is anything to go by.

When Joe says as much, Nicky raises an eyebrow at him.

“Well,” he says seriously. Anybody who didn’t know him wouldn’t even notice he was drunk, but Joe _does_ know him, knows him down to his very bones, and the alcohol is definitely affecting him. It’s endearing as hell. “What was I supposed to do? You’ve been gone for an _eternity.”_

“Don’t exaggerate,” Joe says, looking down at him – his pink face, his heavy-lidded eyes, his overly solemn expression, his loose-limbed sprawl – and suddenly loves him so much he can barely stand it. “It was half an eternity at best.”

“Was not,” Nicky says, petulant, grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Anyway, don’t correct me.”

“I’m not correcting you,” Joe says, just because he can. God, he thinks, as always, Nicky is _lovely_ when he’s feeling argumentative.

“Case in fucking point,” Nicky says, like he knows, which he probably does, and points a finger at him for good measure.

“I don’t know what you-” Joe says, and he is planning to add the word _mean_ to that sentence, he is absolutely planning to; wants to pretend he doesn’t know what the hell Nicky is talking about, but he can’t, he absolutely cannot, because all of a sudden Nicky has rolled forward on their stupid office chair, and now his thighs are bracketing Joe’s legs.

It should be ridiculous, in all honesty, because he’s _drunk,_ and he still looks way too serious, and he’s rolling around on a chair with wheels of all things, but. It isn’t. Maybe Joe is just ridiculously easy for him, even now, after all of this years – that might be entirely possible.

“You can explain it to me later,” Nicky mutters absentmindedly, dismissive, and leans forward, burying his face right against Joe’s hip. Joe’s hands reach for him immediately, instinctively – couldn’t stop himself if he wanted to, and he doesn’t ever want to, so. Nicky is fumbling with his fly, carefully undoing it, pulling the zipper and then his trousers down without taking his face away. He’s nuzzling at Joe’s hipbone, through the fabric of his t-shirt, eyes blissfully closed.

“Yeah?” Joe says, gone hoarse already.

“Yeah,” Nicky mumbles, and he _is_ drunk, Joe thinks, pliant and demanding at the same time. “Here, just…”

He doesn’t even finish the sentence, just grabs Joe’s hips and tugs at him, shoving him back to sit on the desk. His trousers are already down to mid-thigh, which doesn’t seem to be good enough for Nicky, because he pulls them even further down, making an impatient noise then they get caught on Joe’s feet and bends down to take them all the way off. Leaves the socks on, but oh well. Not like Joe can bring himself to give a fuck by now. Nicky rolls closer, as close as he can, pushing Joe’s legs apart as he goes. Joe puts his arms out behind him, mindful of the laptop, catching himself on his palms. Inhales sharply when Nicky bends down again, mouths at his dick through the fabric of his boxer briefs.

Can feel himself getting hard under the little bit of attention already.

“I want…” Nicky says, breathless and then nuzzles at him again, like Joe might refuse him and has to be fucking convinced first.

“Yes, anything, if you, if you want, just do it,” Joe says immediately, and then, “fuuuuck, oh _fuck-”_ when Nicky carefully pulls his dick out of his underwear without even taking it off, slips it out casually, like it’s nothing more than a toy, his to do with whatever he damn well pleases, and Joe can feel himself go from zero to hundred in the span of two seconds, arousal shivering through him, because few things turn him on more than Nicky being proprietary and demanding in such an off-handed way.

Nicky sucks him off like that, mouth unbearably hot and unbearably _easy,_ sucking at him like he never wants to do anything else. Joe reaches for him, dazed, and when he puts a hand on the top of his head, Nicky makes an encouraging noise, low in the back of his throat, inhaling a hectic, shivery breath and Joe’s hand balls into a fist almost without his permission.

Nicky shudders under his grip, very clearly into it, which makes Joe let go, wind his fingers deeper into Nicky’s hair – and it’s not easy, it never is, because his hair is thick but fine, slippery like water, almost impossible to grab if you don’t know what you’re doing – but thank God Joe does, he has the experience, knows exactly what Nicky likes and grips his hair properly. That gets him a soft, helpless noise, all the tensions seeming to bleed out of Nicky and him at the same time; both of them sinking into each other, getting hopelessly lost. Nicky sucks him slowly after that, leisurely but not lazy, keeps moaning around the dick in his mouth like this is the best thing he has ever done. Joe grips him tight; can’t quite bring himself to fuck his face, but he’s guiding him along, directing him, deciding how fast he wants it and how deep. Nicky digs his fingers into Joe’s thighs in response, mindlessly groping at him, gently running a thumb over his balls every now and again.

And the thing is, he’s not even _trying_ to tease, Joe is well aware of that, he’s just enjoying himself, which makes it so much hotter – lips swollen from use, eyes blinking up at Joe in a daze, like he needs to make sure Joe is still there, still paying attention. Which he is, he couldn’t stop if he wanted to.

Nicky sucks him off like that, right then and there, on top of their desk, boxer briefs still on. Swallows and drools around him until Joe is actually trying not to move too much so he doesn’t slide off the desk, bucks into his perfect red mouth, legs spread wide, one of them balanced on the arm rest of the office chair.

“Nicolo,” he manages. “I’m, _hn,_ I, this is-” except Nicky doesn’t let up, of course he doesn’t, just keeps sucking him until Joe comes with a groan, distantly aware that Nicky swallows everything down with a satisfied hum that seems to vibrate right through them. He still has a steel grip on Nicky’s head, he realizes, fingers sunk deep into his hair like he’s digging for gold, and Nicky… he seems fucking dazed, lips shiny with come and spit, limp underneath Joe’s hand. He looks enormously satisfied. Turns his head a bit, mouthing at Joe’s forearm like an afterthought.

“You were saying?” he mumbles.

“You know what,” Joe says, trying to catch his breath. “I can’t remember…”

“If you say so,” Nicky says. “Still, I think you should make it up to me.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Alright,” Joe says, smiling at him, heart pounding inside his chest when Nicky smiles back. “Let’s go to bed, huh?”

“Yes…” Nicky says. “Let’s.”


	20. 2:03 am (The Old Guard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **The Old Guard,** Teen and Up Audiences  
> Joe x Nicky  
>   
> The boys are out and about. Nicky is every introvert hittin' the town, ever. Joe is every extrovert, ever. (They're very much in love.)

“Did you see that,” Joe stage-whispers, because he’s still very much drunk – Nicky could tell solely from the way he’s got his hands stuffed into his pockets, from the focused expression on his face, fiercely concentrating on whatever he is going to say next, “He… he _kissed_ me.”

“Really,” Nicky says, amused. Can’t help but be irrationally proud, because of course people want to kiss Joe. It’s perfectly understandable, even if _Nicky_ is the one who gets to go home with him after this, will get to wake up in the same bed as him tomorrow. 

“Yes,” Joe says very earnestly, still whispering loudly for no discernible reason at all.

“He has good taste, then.”

Joe makes a ridiculous face at him and Nicky laughs. 

“Did you just compliment yourself?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Nicky says innocently. Joe’s rejected paramour is watching them, looking resigned, even though they’re not even touching. Maybe the way Joe is leaning into him when he talks is an indication that they might be… better acquainted. 

“Nicolo,” Joe murmurs. He really looks especially lovely today, Nicky thinks, well-dressed and loose-limbed and animated. _Alive_ in every sense of the word.

“Yes?”

“I think… hmm. D’you still want to stay a little longer?”

“Ready to leave whenever you are,” Nicky says. In truth, he ordered himself another drink over ten minutes ago. It hasn’t arrived yet, because the bartender is currently having an angry discussion with another, very inebriated customer; but since he already paid for it, he doesn’t feel bad about leaving without a word. 

They’ve barely stepped out into the dim hallway leading to the staircase leading up to the street level, deserted at this late hour, when Joe suddenly wraps both arms around his shoulders and buries his face against Nicky’s neck. 

“You alright?”

“Yes,” Nicky hears him say, voice muffled, and then “…look good in blue.”

“Thank you.”

“D’you… Nicolo. _Nico._ My heart. Do you want to go to bed with me?”

“I was assuming that was the plan here, yes,” Nicky says, helplessly amused, misunderstanding him on purpose.

“No,” Joe says impatiently and pulls back to blink at him, brow furrowed. “Go to _bed,_ I mean! You know, with me. To… you know. Because I love you very much, and… you’re a much better kisser anyway. I swear on my life.”

“Well, thank you,” Nicky says again, trying not to laugh. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Of _you?”_ Joe says, looking genuinely affronted. “Never.”

He’s flushed, color high on his cheeks, from arousal or the heat or from the alcohol, it’s hard to tell. When Nicky strokes a thumb over his cheek, softly, softly, right along the edge where his beard starts to grow, his skin is hot to the touch. 

Joe makes a soft noise. “Never,” he says again, barely a murmur this time.

“I know,” Nicky says, smiling at him. “I know. Come on then, let’s go.”

He’s well aware of the fact that Joe will most likely doze off on the car ride home; and that he’ll be out like a light as soon as his head hits a pillow. There’s a fifty-fifty chance Nicky will manage to get him undressed before that happens. Doesn’t matter, he thinks, unbearably fond of the way Joe grips the handrail of the winding staircase to steady himself as he’s climbing the stairs, looking over his shoulder as if to make sure Nicky is really following him. 

They can _go to bed_ tomorrow, or any other day of the week, after all.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
